


Pas de Deux

by songbird-musing (Team_Starkid)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Social Justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 75,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23864665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Team_Starkid/pseuds/songbird-musing
Summary: Grantaire has been making ballet shoes in a Parisian factory for the last three years. He does not like ballet, and he especially does not like ballet dancers.Then, in strolls Enjolras, the lead dancer of the National Paris Ballet company.Somehow Grantaire gets himself tangled up in the first ever social justice ballet troupe, and is surrounded by dancers at all times. He should hate it, but he can’t stop being distracted by a certain dancer’s charisma and unfairly pretty eyes.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy/Éponine Thénardier, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 437
Kudos: 258





	1. Entrée

**Author's Note:**

> A Pas de Deux is a dance between two people. 
> 
> If you're looking for a soft, fluffy slow-burn fic, with lots of artsy dance metaphors and sweet boys being sweetly in love... this is the fic for you!

Ballet shoes are a delicately beautiful sight, satin and ribbon, all glossy in early-spring blossom pink.

Quite the opposite of a delicately beautiful sight, is the factories where they are made: sheens of material, leather, elastics strewn, the clanging chatter of machinery, loud, bawdy conversations thrown around above the noise, by men more at home on building sites, than ballet theatres. The topics of discussion could be lewd, and the men were often old - still entrenched in the gender norms of years gone by - embarrassed slightly by the femininity of the shoes they created.

Less lewd, and less old, and certainly less entrenched in the gender norms of years gone by, was Grantaire.

When his older colleagues would gawk over the prima ballerinas that occasionally came to the workshop with complaints, he shook his head and continued to work - stitching, or shaping, or sketching. He watched himself work with weary sort of wonder, knowing the shoes that formed beneath his calloused palms and slender fingers were a thing of beauty, but so familiar with them, that it rarely shocked him greatly.

Like many of the folks he worked alongside, Grantaire had little fascination with ballet. He had seen a few amateur productions as a child, and he occasionally caught a glimpse of the shoes he made in snippets of television broadcasts - but beside that, he knew very little about the dance form. The only thing he knew about it was how to craft the perfect shoe.

“Hey, R!” came the voice of his closest friend at work, Feuilly, “I think you’ve got one of your dancers popping by today.”

Grantaire gave a groan and shared an eye roll with the other man.

“I know,” Feuilly replied, “Pain in the neck, isn’t it?”

Grantaire let his hands still over the shoes. “Do you know who it is?”

“No idea, mate,” Feuilly shrugged jovially, “Hope it’s not one of the divas.”

“Hope she doesn’t roll up in a limousine,” Grantaire added.

“With a mink coat.”

“In 35 degree heat.” They laughed. “With my luck, it probably will be the biggest Prima Donna of them all.”

Feuilly had a toothy grin dancing on his lips. He sat opposite Grantaire and prepared his needles and threads. “Have you been sending out dodgy shoes, Monsieur R?”

“How dare you suggest such a thing?” he gasped, doused in mock offence, “My shoes are the finest in all of Paris!”

Feuilly scoffed, “Keep dreaming… you better not let the Old Bishop hear you saying that…”

The Old Bishop in question was Myriel, a practically ancient craftsman who had been designing his shoes for decades. His shoes were the most desired in France, and at eighty years of age, he made around a hundred shoes a day to keep up with his demand. He was referred to as the Old Bishop, due to his signature stamp.

Each crafter had a nickname based on the stamp they pressed into the soles of their shoes. They had different signs so that dancers could tell them apart, and return to buy new shoes from their favourite designer. Myriel had a small bishop, like a piece from a chessboard, his piety confirmed with each shoe that he made. Feuilly had a tiny fan, since his family in Poland had all been fan-makers.

“ _Fan makers?”_ Grantaire had asked when he first found out, “Like… fancy ones or electric fans?”

“No,” Feuilly had said, “The fancy ones. All masquerade ball style. Lace, gold trimmings, the whole shebang.”

“Seems like a bit of a niche trade,” Grantaire mused.

Feuilly simply held up the half-finished shoe he had been crafting. “And ballet shoe design isn’t?”

They had grinned at one another, and the start of their friendship began to form.

Grantaire’s sign was a simple, capital letter ‘R.’ He was extremely proud of the pun, but didn’t like to explain it. Whenever he thought of that tiny part of himself, pressed against grand stages, in opera houses, and rehearsal rooms, he felt flooded with a strange, faraway sort of pride.

It was nice to imagine his shoes at a distance, but ballerina visits were always a step too involved for Grantaire. His past experiences had often been veritable nightmares - grappling with egos too big for bird-framed bodies, and the expectation that he should be overcome with gratitude and awe at meeting a dancer who wore his shoes. He simply did not care enough to fake wonder. He designed shoes for dancers to wear, and dancers wore them: he did not wish for a fanfare, or a TV crew, or interviewers, or a highly-strung ballerina distracting him from his work.

As annoying as Grantaire found it, _it was_ a part of his job - and he had mastered his performance so precisely that the dancers were in and out quickly, without causing too much offence at his lack of interest in their stardom.

Today would be no different, thought Grantaire, when the buzzer went off. The room of craftsmen looked up slowly.

“I’ll get it,” Grantaire said, sighing and putting the shoe he was working on gently on his workbench. “She’s here to talk with me.”

A chorus of jeers echoed behind him, and Grantaire fondly rolled his eyes.

“Hi?” he said into the buzzer.

“Hey,” came a voice, far deeper than he had expected, “I’m here to meet the designer, R?” he said, tone hesitant.

“Oh, great,” Grantaire said, “I’ll buzz you in and come down to let you upstairs.” He pressed the buzzer and began his long, twisting descent down the stairs. 

In all of his three years designing shoes, Grantaire had never met a male customer. He imagined they could probably be even more awful than their female counterpoints. His worst possibilities of meeting someone in a fur coat with a limo chugging gasoline in the street, did not dispel from his mind. He then remembered the one dancer that visited with a yappy dog in a purse, who shredded a whole reel of silk - and crossed his fingers that whomever he was about to meet had deemed to leave their pet at home.

As he neared the bottom, he noticed a figure hunched over a rickety bike. 

“Sorry,” said the man, “Is it alright if I leave my bike here?”

The bike meant no limo. The wine-red suit jacket meant no fur coat. And there was no chihuahua, pug, or other whining creature with teeth. By those standards, the meeting would likely be one of the better ones.

The dancer straightened up and looked Grantaire in the eye. “Um…” Grantaire said, his words lodged somewhere uncomfortable in his throat. “Um…”

The man tilted his head, shock of electric golden hair flouncing in the lowlights, the contrast of his night-dark skin, and glaringly blue eyes physically paining Grantaire. He was so clearly a dancer, with his held back shoulders, poised neck, and lean arms. A question perched on the curve of his rosebud lips. He ran a hand across his scalp, and it looked as though he were weaving gold through his fingers, as though he were a prince from a fairy tale. Grantaire hopped to the last step, aware that the top of his head would only reach the dancer's shoulder. He suddenly knew how the other shoemakers felt when starstruck by a pretty dancer, suddenly understood that the phrase 'starstruck,' came from the feeling that all the stars had plummeted from heaven and struck him firmly in the chest, and that stardust had crumbled into his eyes and glued his lashes together, and turned his vision golden. 

With a dazzling start, Grantaire concluded that this meeting would probably be the best one he had ever had.

“If not,” the dancer continued, “I can tie it to a lamppost, or something.” He glanced back to the door and shook his mass of curls, “I’ve not had much luck with bike thieves recently, though,” he said, almost more to himself than to Grantaire.

“Oh no, _not at all!_ ” Grantaire said, pulling himself together, “It’s absolutely no problem to leave it there. No problem whatsoever!”

The man smiled, and his teeth were unfairly white, and unfairly straight, and his features were unfairly symmetrical and unfairly attractive.

“Come on up,” Grantaire said, with a watery beam, only imagining that the man was noticing his crooked smile with crooked teeth, and crooked nose on crooked face. “I’ll show you the workshop.”

They wound up the stairs in near silence, only broken by the dancer’s cursory comment on the many stairs. Grantaire knew that he could be charming, and witty and wry, but nothing seemed to fall onto his lips besides a lack of words.

“Here we are,” Grantaire said, waving a hand around the vast workshop space, “The factory where your shoes are made.” A few of the designers looked up with vague interest, eyes quickly dropping back to their work.

“And R?” the dancer asked.

“Oh,” said Grantaire, a frown creasing his brow, “Sorry. How rude of me,” he offered his hand, and the dancer took it, palms silken from lack of manual labour. He looked into the dancer's eyes, a somewhat wicked grin dancing across his face, filled with revelry and reverence. “ _I’m_ R.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> I missed my lovely boys too much and then wrote like 10k words of a brand new fic, which is basically Virtuoso 2, but instead of being classical musicians, Les Amis are ballet dancers. 
> 
> Is this just because I want Enjolras to be graceful and gorgeous and have his dancing strike Grantaire speechless?? .... MAYBE. 
> 
> ((P.S I am a slight fraud, and have never made ballet pointe shoes... I'm as clueless as most about it!))
> 
> ((P.P.S. If you wanna read the best ballet E/R fic in existence, shout out to Liberté, Egalité, Demi-Plié, which I read ages ago, but has a very different storyline to this - I hope my subconcious hasn't just rewritten it lol!)) 
> 
> Would absolutely LOVE to hear what you think - all comments are guaranteed to make me FEEL ALIVE! <3


	2. Assemblé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras visits the ballet shoe workshop, meeting Grantaire for the first time. 
> 
> Grantaire usually hates visits from ballerinas, but for some reason does not hate this one at all.

The man paused, their palms still as one, “ _You’re_ R?”

Grantaire grinned. “Sorry to disappoint.”

The dancer’s cheeks darkened a shade, “Oh, no, no,” he said, words tripping in a self-concious flow, “I didn’t mean that at all. Sorry. No. It’s just… you’re so _young_ …”

Grantaire gave an easy shrug.

“I’m Enjolras,” the dancer said, “I’ve been wearing your shoes for the past three years.”

Their hands finally fell apart. Grantaire laughed. “Thanks for paying my bills.”

Enjolras’ sombre expression broke into a surprised sort of smile. “I could say the same to you. I wouldn’t be able to dance without your shoes.”

Grantaire waved the compliment away. “So…” he said, “What’s wrong with them?”

“Hm?” Enjolras’ lips pressed together, and parted in an unspoken question.

“Usually you lot visit if you want me to make some changes to your fit.”

“Oh no, not at all,” Enjolras said, beginning to take in the sights of the workshop with unbridled wonder in his eyes. “I just wanted to visit… I’m sort of trying to visit each area of people that I work with to understand the craft better. Some of the other dancers I work with never think of the chain of people that make a ballet show possible, but I understand the importance of it, and thought it terribly hypocritical of myself that I hadn’t met everyone that helps my performance.”

One of Grantaire’s eyebrows rose, “Noble,” he quipped, and Enjolras’ shocking gaze snapped back to him, almost sending him reeling. They stared at one another for a moment, Grantaire wondering if the earnestness before him was genuine, or annoyingly idealistic. Grantaire finally dropped his eyes and scratched at his scalp. “Um, well. Would you like a tour?”

The beam that spread across Enjolras’ face was undeniably genuine. “I would absolutely love one,” he said, and for the first time, Grantaire was not hoping the dancer in front of him would leave as soon as possible.

He showed Enjolras the reams of material, stacks of leather and stock in the storage room. Enjolras’ eyes reflected the pink shimmer, as his fingers danced lightly over the fabric. He showed him to the ovens, where the pointe shoes baked to harden the ends. Enjolras gave a surprised laugh, and proclaimed he had never expected that his shoes were oven-baked. He led him through the various workbenches, with Enjolras stopping often to exchange pleasantries with the workers and dispense praise for the shoes.

“And finally,” Grantaire said, “We have my bench here…”

“Wow,” Enjolras said, “And what are you working on?”

Grantaire displayed the pair of shoes that were almost finished. “For a dancer from your company, I believe.”

“Oh!” Enjolras’ eyes sparked aflame, “It must be Cosette! There’s a strange competitiveness between who has which shoemaker, sometimes,” he said with a hazy, summer smile, “Cosette and I always proclaim that you’re the greatest shoemaker in all of Paris!”

“Cosette, yes,” Grantaire said, the shoes playing between his fingers. “It is so strange to put a face to the shoes,” he said.

“Likewise for me,” Enjolras offered, “I thought you were going to be ancient.” He reached a hand towards the shoe. “Do you mind?”

Grantaire shook his head, feeling his dark frizz of hair fall in his eyes.

Enjolras picked up the shoe with a reverence, fingers falling upon the satin as though it were a lover’s shoulder. “Is it done?”

“Almost,” Grantaire tilted his head, “Let’s see, shall we?” He reached for the shoe and knelt at eye level to his desk. A moment later, Enjolras swooped down in one graceful movement, so he too was doing the same. Grantaire touched the toe of the shoe to the workbench, and lifted the heel so it was stood en pointe, and slowly took his hands away. The shoe continued to stand, mimicking a phantom dancer - an eerily lovely sight.

“Wow,” Enjolras breathed, “It’s so beautiful.”

Grantaire shrugged. “It’s just a shoe.”

“Nonsense,” Enjolras said, an awe still drenching his voice, “It’s almost a _miracle_.” His smooth forehead wrinkled. “It makes me feel awful,” he said, lightly, a glint in his eyes.

“Awful? Why?”

Enjolras reached for his bag and winced. “You have to promise not to hate me…”

Grantaire laughed, eyes tracing the way Enjolras’ forearms tightened as he began to lift something out. “Okay…?”

“Sorry!” Enjolras laughed, and retrieved a pair of his own shoes.

Grantaire noticed the tiny ‘R’ stamps on each sole, but besides that, they were almost unrecognisable from the lovely, satiny things he sent out each day.

The end was blackened with dirt, the material broken and torn so grievously that you could see the box at the toe of the shoe. The ribbons were stitched on, slightly more grey than pink, and the soles were bent and creased into a malleable shape.

“Wow, how old are these ones?” Grantaire took them into his hands and marvelled at the destruction of his creation.

“Only four days old,” Enjolras winced. “I’m going through them like crazy at the moment. Rehearsals have been killing me.”

“Are you preparing for a show?”

Enjolras’ eyes flickered away, a frown hesitantly passing over his forehead for a moment. “Yes. In two weeks.” He gave a fluttering sigh. “I should probably head over there now… I don’t want to be late.”

Grantaire let his fingers drift over the tatters for a final time before handing them back. “Good luck for the show… performance… whatever it’s called. I don’t know much about ballet, in all honesty.”

Enjolras slipped the shoes back into his bag and stretched out his neck. “ _Really?_ Well I simply must get you a ticket for the show… if you were interested, of course…”

A smile itched its way onto Grantaire’s lips. “I’d like that a lot,” he said, suddenly finding Enjolras’ eye contact too scalding, and peering at his own hands instead.

“Wonderful,” Enjolras shifted his bag onto his shoulders and straightened to his full, looming height. “Well. I’d better be off. Thank you for the tour.”

“Any time.”

“And thank you for the best shoes in all of Paris,” Enjolras added with a grin.

“I am at your service,” Grantaire said with a bow.

Enjolras glanced at his watch and frowned - deep ridges crushing the dark marble of his skin. “Christ. I’ve seriously got to dash. Thanks, R.” He connected their palms once more in a firm shake and turned sharply to the door, his gait quick and light and hardly making a sound.

Grantaire watched him go, hand still warm from the contact. He sat numbly at his desk, fingers curving around the finished shoe in front of him.

Feuilly gave him a knowing look.

“Ballerinas, eh?” Feuilly commented, sanding down a pointe block.

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, feeling his pulse in his fingertips, “Ballerinas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Would absolutely LOVE to know what you think - reading comments literally makes me write like craaaazy! So nice to hear that people are looking forward to it from chapter one! 
> 
> This one is short and sweet - but be prepared for a million chapters of long looks and tentative hand brushes, and WAY too many dancing metaphors, and references to E/R being hand in hand... like WAY TOO MANY it is my KRYPTONITE. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Where do you want to see this universe go?! Thank yoooou <3


	3. Élevé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Éponine visit the ballet.

A week and a half later, a letter in a crisp, cream envelope found its way onto Grantaire’s desk. A simple ‘R’ decorated the address, and Grantaire did not quite believe it as he tore it open and two tickets fluttered into his hands.

“Huh,” he said, “Feuilly… You wanna come with me to a ballet show?”

Feuilly grimaced, not taking his eyes off his work. “Hell no. I’m surrounded by these bloody shoes all day - you think I want to see them on my night off?”

Grantaire laughed in response. “Fair enough.”

“Nah,” Feuilly said. “I’d rather watch something good.” After a moment he added, “Why have you got tickets?”

Grantaire looked at the thick card, embossed in gold. “Dunno, really,” he said, “One of the visiting ballet dancers gave me them.”

“Oh,” Feuilly said. “The one with… the eyes.”

Grantaire shrugged. “All the visiting dancers I’ve met have _had_ eyes.”

“Nah, you know who I mean,” Feuilly said, “Mr. Wow.”

An ungainly snort burst from Grantaire. “ _Mr. Wow?”_

Feuilly lifted his shoulders in a weak imitation, “You know. Those Greek God muscles, the blonde hair… the _eyes.”_

“No idea who you’re on about.”

Feuilly punched Grantaire in the arm. “You are _such_ a pathetic liar.”

“Seems like he made quite the impression on you. Maybe _you_ should take both the tickets.”

He sighed loudly and gave Grantaire a grimace. “Go to hell, my dear, R. The day he visited, I saw that gay panic in your eyes, clear as day. There’s no shame in it. Just take… the Old Bishop, or something.”

“What the hell is gay panic?” Grantaire laughed.

“Like… regular panic, but with more yearning,” Feuilly stamped his fan sign into the sole of the shoe he was holding, “Trust me. We’ve all been there.”

~*~

Grantaire arrived home just before it got dark, tramped up the wooden, splintered staircase that seemed to get miles longer with each day. He wrangled with his keys in the dodgy lock, and finally pushed open his door, ready to collapse on the sofa, with a bottle of wine and a cheap baguette.

“Éponine?” he called, kicking off his boots.

“Mm?” came a muffled reply from the depths of their couch.

He slumped down next to her, bottle of Merlot in hand. “Long day?”

“Mm,” she repeated, face down in the cushions, “You?”

“Not too bad,” he said, uncorking the bottle with his teeth. “Wanna get drunk?”

Éponine finally sat up, stretching out her neck and arm muscles. “You don’t even need to ask, darling.”

They drank straight from the bottle, slumping over the sofa, and over each other - so close and numb they almost felt like one person.

“What’s your stance on hot dancers?” Grantaire asked, mind buzzing happily.

Éponine snorted. “All dancers are hot. We’re a godly breed, babe.”

“D’you wanna see a ballet show with me, then?”

Éponine raised an eyebrow. “Boujee…” she grinned. “What’s gotten into you?” She stretched out her arms and Grantaire winced as she accidentally punched him in the neck. “A hot dancer?” she cackled.

“No. A hot dancer has not _gotten into me,_ thank you very much, you raunchy reprobate,” Grantaire wrestled her arm away, “I got free tickets.”

Éponine sat up and narrowed her dark eyes. “From a hot dancer?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Well, by your definition… all dancers are hot… so… yeah?”

“You are beyond annoying, sometimes, my love,” Éponine grinned, yawning and reaching for the bottle. “When?”

“Wednesday next week. If it’s the evening, you should be free, right?”

“Should be… I don’t have many rehearsals at the moment… and I’m not teaching… so, yeah. Let’s see your shoes in action…” she giggled, “See your shoes in action. Say _that_ five times quickly.”

“See your shoes in action, see your shoes in action, see your shoes in action,” Grantaire said, the soft sibilance rolling off his tongue into one long slur. “We’re drunk.” He said, as though it was a quest they had completed.

“We are,” she said, dropping her head roughly onto his shoulder, her mane of hair tickling at his neck. They slept there on the sofa, tangled up like siblings - so used to the rhythm of one another that they barely noticed each other’s presence.

~*~

When he woke for work the next morning, Éponine rolled off him, onto the floor, her hair a vicious tangle, her tracksuit rumpled and worn. As he made her a poisonously strong coffee, she scrolled through her phone, squinting at the light.

“You got rehearsals today?” he asked, pressing the coffee into her hands.

“Ugh, thanks,” her voice was tattered and croaked, “No. I wish. We can’t afford rehearsal space at the moment, so we’re just trying to choreograph in coffee shops and stuff.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah,” she let out a sigh. “And we’re all working our other jobs like crazy… G is doing insane, like, sixty hours a week at the bar. And Montparnasse is really struggling in his temp job. It just… sucks. You know, it’s struggling artist BS, isn’t it?”

Grantaire kissed the top of her hair, and scuffed her shoulder with his knuckles. “I’m here for you, Ép.”

“Cheers, my love. Now get outta here. You can’t be late for work.” She gave a wink through smudged mascara lashes and he smiled as he left, wishing he could help soothe the wars that waged inside her.

~*~

By the time Wednesday rolled around, both Grantaire and Éponine looked a little more respectable. Grantaire donned an emerald green shirt - an old thing leftover from teenage parties and love affairs, and Éponine had washed her hair, and snuggled inside a lilac turtleneck jumper.

They sauntered through the Paris streets, stealing snapshots of each other under the moon.

“Ugh,” Éponine said, looking at a photo she had just taken, “You look a faery sent down from the stars, doused in ethereal glow. You have to put this on your Insta.”

He looked at it and grimaced. “Shut up. I’m pulling a weird face, and my nose looks gigantic.”

“ _Take that back_. I’m offended. You literally have my favourite nose in the world.”

Grantaire tutted and looked up at the grand opera house in front of him. “Guess we’re here.”

“R, my love. You have to take it back.”

“Fine,” Grantaire narrowed his eyes, “I take it back.”

“Say the speech.”

He squinted even more. “ _Seriously?_ Fine. I am beautiful. I am wonderful. Ugliness is a myth created by Western beauty standards to sell impossible standards to women, and demonise ageing.”

Éponine smiled smugly. “My beautiful best friend,” she beamed, pinching his cheek, “I have trained you well.”

They chattered a little too brashly through the corridors, and scoffed rather too loudly at the prices of snacks, and took up more space than the mass of elite ballet-goers wanted them to.

They were led by an usher to the seats, and both met each other’s eyes with an incredulous look. They were only a few rows back from the front, and the set of a night skyscape loomed over them, so vast and encapsulating, it felt like they were caught in a lucid dream.

“So whose shoes do you make, then?” Éponine asked, flicking through the glossy programme they were sharing.

“Just two dancers from this company. I think most of them wear the Old Bishop’s.” He scanned the rows of professional headshots. “Hers…” he said, pointing at the slight, blonde girl, staring into the distance, lips slightly parted.

“Oh, she _is_ entrancing,” Éponine said, “Didn’t I say all dancers possessed divine beauty?”

“We came here for an evening of high-brow entertainment,” Grantaire said, overly refining his accent, knowing she would laugh, “Not for you to just thirst over every dancer that comes onstage.”

She giggled and punched his shoulder. “Perk of the freebie. You should have invited someone else if you didn’t want me to.” She said, “Cosette,” letting the name slip from her lips, as gently as someone running their fingers through a lover’s hair. “Is this the one you met?”

Grantaire scanned the page and shook his head. “No, I met him,” he said, pointing at Enjolras’ headshot - which was graceful and intimidating - face stern, eyes alive.

“Ooh!” Éponine cooed, “God, he is gorgeous! I could eat him for dessert!” she said, loud enough to earn a glare from the couple sat next to her. “What’s he doing getting pointe shoes?”

Grantaire stared at her, brows furrowed. “Um, what do you think?”

“R, even _I_ know that boys never wear pointe shoes. Sexist as hell, but that’s ballet for you.”

“Men don’t wear pointe shoes?” Grantaire asked. “Huh.”

“Babe, you _make_ ballet shoes… How are you so clueless?”

“I don’t think it’s _that_ clueless not to know that men don’t wear pointe shoes in ballet. Ask anyone on the street, I’m sure most of them would not know,” he bickered back.

“ _Babe,_ it is your _job,”_ she cackled.

He scowled at her, sharp retort ready to dance out of his lips. Suddenly, the lights dimmed, they beamed at one another, and their hearts raced, matching the tempo of the overture.

In that loudly motionless moment, the stage empty, the world felt as though it were balanced on the edge of a precipice, and the second the first dancer ran into place, Grantaire felt a wash of vertigo as all the stillness and anticipation, tipped and fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh we're so close to seeing Enj dancing! How is Grantaire's lovely little heart going to COPE? I love a good old Éponine/R friendship and this chapter is basically just them in all their glory!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought!
> 
> If you've got anything you'd love to see, or any E/R ballet/shoemaker headcanons you love let me know!! I love love love hearing what you think! My absolute fave thing in the world is reading and replying to comments, so let's chat!! Tysm! <3


	4. Cavalier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire forgets how to breathe when he sees Enjolras perform. 
> 
> He also wonders why the hundreds of pointe shoes he has made over the years for Enjolras are nowhere to be seen.

It did not take long for Grantaire to catch the first glimpse of his shoes. After the principal ballerina had finished her introductory solo - so light on her feet, she seemed to be floating through the air - the rest of the female company joined her. They stood identical, in long rose skirts, beaded bodices, and tiaras, arms and legs pointed in neat rows of precision. They moved as a unit, the whole stage seeming to breathe as one. The dancers gazed into the crowd, faces neutral, hair pulled back into tight buns. Grantaire studied the faces, finding the features almost identical, jolting as Éponine pinched his elbow, pointing to a girl at the edge of the stage. 

Cosette.

Throughout the first few dances, all he could look at was the way her feet spun and glided across the stage. The ensemble were so slick that sometimes he lost her face in the crowd - the effect hypnotising.

After half an hour or so, she pirouetted near the front of the stage, and Grantaire could not stop the gasp in his throat, as he caught sight of the miniature ‘R’ stamped into the sole of her shoe. Éponine grinned and squeezed his wrist. A strange fuzz of distant pride crept around his shoulders.

Once he had seen his initial, he allowed himself to watch more than just the shoes and tried to comprehend the storyline he had completely missed. Something about a princess preparing to marry a prince- a deeply unhappy expression on the prima ballerina’s face as she danced forlorn duets with the handsome male lead - white tights extremely form-fitting, a gold crown nestled atop brown ringlets, and somehow staying in place through dozens of leaps and spins.

Éponine had been right, though. Where all the female dancers danced on the pointe shoes that Grantaire knew so intimately, the male lead wore soft, white leather pumps, with no box in the edge of the shoe, which did not allow the floating effect that the feminine dance corps achieved.

Around an hour into the first half, Grantaire felt his neck and back begin to get stiff, and noticed that his legs were getting pins-and-needles prickling up his calves. He tried to press a palm into his muscles to relieve the discomfort, and shifted restlessly in his chair. Mid-stretch, a blur of gold span onto the stage, and Grantaire froze, the pain retreating into the background of his conscience.

Enjolras, chest bared, spun so fast, his head whipping to the front of the stage as he turned - the movement so intense and rapid that it looked like a feat of impossibility. His hair, free and wild, framed his face in a soft halo of gilded light. His legs, lean and long, were shapely through the white tights, and Grantaire - not usually one for prudishness - felt a flame of heat lick at his cheeks. He cut through the air, legs scissoring, torso defying the laws of gravity, arms following each turn and leap.

Grantaire noticed, though, that the pointe shoes he designed were not on Enjolras’ feet, and instead the dancer wore the same soft, leather pumps as the prince character. A jolt of bitter disappointment tinged foolishly at the back of Grantaire’s mouth, the idea that Enjolras was not wearing his initial, a quiet murmur of melancholy.

His solo made time slow. Under the soft, hazy glow of moon from the set, he moved as though he was under a spell, unable to slow his barrage of turns. He reached for the sky- looking like an earthbound star. The music crescendoed, swelling in rich, orchestral arcs. Grantaire felt his heart beat in his throat. As the orchestra pulled back before the looming, final long note, the prima ballerina ran from offstage, leaping so high in the air that the audience drew together in joint fear that she would come crashing to her demise. As she floated down from her jump, Enjolras lifted an arm, catching the curve of her tiny waist and balancing her as though she weighed little more than a shadow. They froze, interlinked. Enjolras did not tremble under the strain, his bared arm defined and sturdy, his lips softly parted. His eyes stared at the prima ballerina as though she were sent from the sky, dusted in stardust. As she hovered in mid-air, gazing at Enjolras like he was a God-sent miracle, their chests pulsing as one, the curtains dropped.

The crowd’s applause echoed through Grantaire’s eardrums, and his hands rippled together, his eyes still not quite believing the magnitude of the solo he had just seen. He could feel his pulse thrumming behind his eyelids and in his throat.

“Woah,” Éponine said, mouth agape, “Oh my God, I thought that girl was going to break her neck.”

“Yeah… woah,” Grantaire echoed. “You were fully right. Dancers are godly. Like… wow. Nothing I just watched was humanly possible.”

They stayed in their seats during the interval, allowing the row of people to squeeze past to the overcrowded toilets and bars, with drinks so expensive that Grantaire would have needed a mortgage to buy a glass.

“So that was your guy at the end?” Éponine said, programme still open on her lap. “Where were your lovely shoes?”

“I know right!” Grantaire gaped, “I’m going to be having a stern word with that dancer!” he joked. “He brought in an absolutely wrecked pair, and said they were only four days old, so… what the _hell?”_

“We want our money back!” Éponine laughed, shaking a fist in the air. “I only came to see your gorgeous pointe shoes - not those lame male ballet slippers.”

Grantaire grinned. “They _are_ lame. The pointe shoes are way nicer… and I’m not biased at all.”

“He better be wearing them in the second half or I’m filing a formal complaint,” she said, stretching out in her seat - their conversation then steering to how uncomfortable the chairs were.

~*~

However, Enjolras did not wear Grantaire’s shoes in the second half, at all - his feet remaining in the white pumps - a stark contrast to the dark skin of the planes of his chest above the sliver of his waistband.

Even worse, Enjolras himself was not in the second half for very long, either.

A brief duet between the prima ballerina and Enjolras started the performance once the interval ended, but rather suddenly, the prince entered and spun his way around Enjolras, in a tender imitation of a fight.

In an unexpected twist, Enjolras’ character fell to the floor - his dancing stilled. The prince retreated, his feet hesitant, pointed, but when he turned back to the audience, vibrant red blood covered his palms. The prima ballerina fell to Enjolras’ side, her despair choreographed to be lovely and dainty and soft, and all the things grieving never was. She tip-toed around his corpse, the precision of her slender legs astounding as she whipped through the air - her left foot raised above her head, her entire weight resting on the tips of her right toes.

After the applause settled, and the next scene was set, Enjolras was offstage, and Grantaire felt his shoulders sink an inch into the chair.

The rest of the story, although magnificent, and unfalteringly perfect, had some of its golden sheen scuffed, without Enjolras’ arresting presence. The princess character danced her way through the misery of losing her beloved, arguing with her royal parents, and finally ending in the bloodied hands of the prince - her final duet a tragic intertwining of characters.

The prince placed a matching tiara on the princess’ temple, the curtains falling as she turned away, tipping away from him, as he refused to let go, a deep despair playing on her face.

The crowd creaked to their feet, clapping ferociously as the curtains rose once more, and the main ensemble ran elegantly onstage to curtsy deeply. Next, the king and queen met in the middle of the stage, the queen bending into a curtsy, the king bowing. Grantaire’s hands involuntarily sped up when Enjolras floated into the middle of the stage, eyes scanning the crowd, blinding smile on his lips. He took a low bow, hair sweeping close to the ground, before he stood aside and the lead dancer and prima ballerina met together to accept their applause.

After a final moment of stillness onstage, the company fled the spotlight, the final notes of the orchestra spilling through the opera hall.

Éponine and Grantaire piled out onto the street, trailing behind the crowd, the chatter loud and all-encompassing.

“No sight of your shoes, huh?” Éponine said, when they had reached the train.

“I guess not,” Grantaire shrugged, “Weird. He must just rehearse in them.”

When they reached their flat, traipsing into their rooms after their conversation on the sofa dissolved into constant yawns, Grantaire felt a warm sort of flicker in his chest - guessing that he would never see Enjolras, and his lovely eyes, unending legs, and velvety voice, again.

For Grantaire, however, life never seemed to go quite the way he expected it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank yooooooou for reading! my week has been awful, but writing about these lovely boys has brightened it up considerably. This is quite a short chapter, but I'll upload the next chapter v soon! Uploading shorter chapters more frequently makes sense to me, but let me know if you'd prefer double-length chapters less frequently... I'm not sure which is preferred!
> 
> Would love to know what you think, any comments make me SQUEAL! tysm for reading <3


	5. Retiré

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's life has been entirely uneventful for the past few weeks, until there is a shock announcement from Paris' National Ballet Company, and of course, Enjolras is right in the middle of the whirlwind.

A week or so passed, with very little change to Grantaire’s life.

He woke early, sunlight seeping under his eyelids and forcing him awake before his alarm. He walked to work, headphones in, coat buttoned against the bitterness of Parisian mornings. He worked, surrounded by easy chatter and a familiar warmth, his hands dancing the movements they knew so well.

Evenings blurred by in trashy sit-coms that he and Éponine got drunk to and made fun of, cigarettes and conversation shared on their balcony. He stayed up too late, and woke up too early, and days passed and he tried to ignore the pressing feeling that years had slipped by in an identical manner.

Then, one seemingly uneventful Tuesday morning, Feuilly greeted him with a pained look.

“Sorry, mate,” he said, punching Grantaire on the shoulder, “Heard about your ballerinas…”

“Huh?” Grantaire yawned, “What ballerinas?”

“The ones from the National Paris Ballet company…” Feuilly said, squinting at Grantaire.

The National.

The National had just performed in front of Grantaire a week before.

The National had only two ballet dancers that bought shoes from Grantaire. He frowned.

“From the National?” he sat up straighter, “What about them?” His mind crashed into Enjolras, and seeped slowly to Cosette.

“You don’t know?” Feuilly gaped. “How do you not know?”

“What?” he asked, a snaking urgency roiling in his stomach, “Are they alright?”

Career-ending injuries were not uncommon, and it always was a tragic act to cross out a ballerina’s name from an order book - knowing her shattered foot would never require ballet shoes again. Grantaire’s heart stuttered to think of the majesty that Enjolras exuded, brought to an unfairly early end.

“I mean…” Feuilly grimaced, “I saw it on the news this morning.”

_“What?”_

“They’ve been fired.”

_“Fired?”_ Grantaire coughed, half-relieved to hear that Enjolras hadn’t macerated his leg, but then filled with a dread that some of his biggest buyers were out of a job, thus out of a need for his shoes.

“Yeah, it’s big ballet news, man…”

“Why?”

“They did this protest thing… It’s on Youtube. You should watch it.” Feuilly fiddled on his phone for a moment before presenting the shaky footage in front of Grantaire.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“So the guy that visited… Mr. Wow... I think he was meant to be doing a solo, and the main ballerina was meant to jump into his arms at the end… Just watch.”

The footage, discreetly filmed over someone’s shoulder, started just a moment before Enjolras’ solo. Grantaire recognised the moment that Enjolras was due to enter - but instead of his long limbs and mighty stature, the spinning dancer was small and her feminine form was enrobed in Enjolras’ costume - all gold and splendid. Grantaire frowned.

“What?” he repeated.

“Yeah!” Feuilly jabbed at the screen, “He was meant to be doing this solo, but the understudy of the prima ballerina was on and did the solo instead!”

He watched as the blurred girl twisted and leapt in the large, masculine steps, her eyes focused. As he looked closer, he recognised the determined little face from the programme. “That’s Cosette!” he said, “I make her shoes!”

“Yeah, man…” Feuilly said, raising an eyebrow. “Just watch.”

Cosette continued to dance, her feet padding in the soft, white shoes.

“Why is she dancing the male solo?” Grantaire shook his head. “Was this planned?”

“Shut up, and watch. You’ll miss the best bit…”

Grantaire watched obediently, the footage before him not making a jot of sense. The dance progressed, and Grantaire knew the death-defying leap of the prima-ballerina that closed the first act was coming imminently. “No,” he whispered, “Don’t tell me…”

“Shh…”

Cosette spun, pirouetting an inhuman amount of times, before slowing, her head turning to the right side of the stage.

Grantaire stopped breathing.

Enjolras, his gold hue somehow not dulled by the low-quality video, soared from the edge of the stage - somehow falling with a slow grace. Cosette’s arms, suddenly appearing as slender and feeble as pale matchsticks, reached for him - catching his waist. Somehow, defying the laws of gravity, she held him up above her head. His legs kicked higher, the two dancers staring at one another with a ferocious intensity. Floating down from Enjolras’ narrow waist were soft lace and tulle skirts in rose gold. In the moment before the curtains dropped, Grantaire noticed Enjolras’ floating feet. Instead of the soft ballet slippers, his feet were poised in solid pointe shoes - pointe shoes that Grantaire knew had a small ‘R’ stamped into the sole of. Instead of the satiny pink that matched the flesh tone of the legs of the dozens of white dancers, he had coated his pointe shoes in a dark paint that matched his skin. The shot, despite its low quality, was striking and powerful, and spoke a message that Grantaire was not sure the ballet world was used to.

“Shit,” Grantaire said, running a hand across his scalp.

“Yeah,” Feuilly grimaced. “Apparently their understudies were sent on for the second half, and they were fired first thing this morning.”

“Why did they do it?”

Feuilly shrugged. “No idea. Powerful stuff, though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire frowned, “Wow.”

“Sorry about that, R. It sucks losing customers.”

Grantaire’s frown deepened and he buried himself in shaping the perfect shoes to ignore the uneasy thread tugging at the back of mind.

~*~

On his lunch break, he found himself searching Enjolras’ name, and falling into an extremely niche-corner of the internet where ballet fanatics were discussing the footage in enormous depth. Every opinion that could possibly held was somewhere in those forums. He browsed through, getting drawn deeper and deeper into websites with names like “Dancer Discussions” and “Ballet Broadcast.” Finally he landed on a sleek black and white website with the simple title blared across the screen. It read: _‘What is the Pointe?’_ and was followed by the video of Enjolras and Cosette’s controversial gender-swapped duet. Underneath, a video that had only been uploaded minutes before, showed Enjolras’ face, solemn under studio lights.

Grantaire shoved his headphones into his ears, and clicked, watching as Enjolras came to life - a flicker of bright camera flashes blurring the screen. Enjolras winced in the direction of the cameras and looked to Cosette, who was sat by his side. An interviewer was perched on the edge of a chair, eyes scanning over her notes.

“Good morning,” she said to the camera, “We’re here live in the studio, with one of Paris’ biggest ballet scandals in years. The two involved are with me right now. Enjolras, Cosette, welcome to the studio.”

“Good morning,” Cosette said, offering her hand.

“Hi,” Enjolras continued to look stern.

“You two were part of the National Paris Ballet company up until this morning, and had been performing eight times a week as part of the new ballet, _Un Vero Amore_. At nine A.M. this morning, it was announced that you were no longer part of the company, and your contracts had been terminated. To give some background, we will play a clip of last night’s performance.”

They played the clip, and Grantaire watched again, his breath catching once again when Enjolras jumped, as though the video would somehow play out differently.

“So,” the interviewer said, “As seen in the video, you danced the end of Act One rather unorthodoxly, by switching roles… What inspired you to do this?”

Cosette cleared her throat. “Well. We wanted to make a statement, really. I’ve been dancing ballet since I was three years old, and time after time, I have witnessed the sexism, and racism, and body-negativity that runs rampant in the ballet world. We wanted to show that ballet and major ballet organisations can be stuck in the past, and that we, as 21st century dancers, should be allowed to progress.”

“And how did you make that statement?” the interviewer asked. Grantaire winced and noticed that Enjolras had done the same.

“Quite simply, I suppose,” Enjolras said, evenly, “We turned away the norms and proved that there is no need for such stagnant, enforced gender rules in the art form. I think Cosette and I, and a great number of other dancers, are tired of the sexist norms and tropes that we have to conform to, because the art form is so old. We were dancing a ballet that was written a hundred years ago, and nothing has changed. It is no surprise that I was the only person of colour in the entire company, and the title of my role was ‘Slave Boy.’ It’s degrading. It’s not who I am, and it’s not who I want to portray anymore. We want to inspire a new wave of dancers to shape ballet into an art form free from the sexist, racist and body-negative constraints it exists in today.”

“Okay,” said the interviewer, trying to grab the reins of her interview back from Enjolras. “Cosette. Your mother, Fantine Tholomyès, was famously the prima ballerina of the Paris National Ballet company around twenty years ago… What is her opinion on your disturbance of the performance?”

“My mother supports me fully,” Cosette smiled, “And I remind you that my mother has also often spoken out about her lifetime of struggles with an eating disorder she developed while at the National. Ballet is fickle and destroys even the greatest of dancers.”

“So this is a protest against the National Ballet company?”

“No,” Enjolras said, eyes fiery, “It is a protest against _all_ ballet companies, and the entire world of ballet. It is a call to arms of any dancer who does not fit the mould of thin, white and gender-conforming. To any dancer who has been told they have to dance degrading roles, or wear shoes that don’t match their skintone, or who have been told to lose weight, and advised by teachers to take up smoking, or to diet heavily. It is a statement that we are taking the art form back into our hands and not allowing the next generation to face the barriers we are ready to take down…”

“Okay, thank you,” the interviewer checked her notes. “Rousing words from the now unemployed secondary lead dancer from the Paris National Ballet company. Next up we go to Suzette for the weather.”

The footage cut out, but not before Grantaire saw the deep sadness that drilled grooves into Enjolras’ forehead as the interviewer brushed his words aside.

Grantaire sat, numbly, debating over whether to break his promise to himself, and sneak outside for a cigarette. As he sat, fingers rolling over a pencil, his mind half on Enjolras, half on a cigarette, the buzzer sounded through the room. The room of craftsmen blearily looked up, no-one moving an inch.

Grantaire sighed and creaked to his feet - knowing that if he answered the door, it would be the perfect chance for a smoke break.

“Hi?” he said into the speaker, thoughts elsewhere.

“R?” came the crackled voice.

“... Hello?” Grantaire started, squinting. He pressed a hand to his face, wondering whether he was hallucinating things. Despite the velveteen tone marred by the speaker, there was no way that it was coming from the man Grantaire was imagining. It must be a deliveryman with stock, or somebody picking up shoes.

“It’s Enjolras,” the voice confirmed, sending Grantaire’s thoughts spinning. “I need to speak to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :O yes Enjolras and Cosette - destroy the patriarchy! destroy racism! destroy gender norms! I LOVE THEM
> 
> Why does Enjolras need Grantaire? FIND OUT SOON! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I would LOOOOOVE to know what you think! Reading and replying to comments is literally my favourite thing to do in lockdown teehee! <3 <3


	6. Devant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has a mysterious proposition for Grantaire, and Grantaire can't refuse.

Suddenly Grantaire’s mind was a million miles away from the thought of a cigarette. “Oh… Um. Enjolras. Hi. How… unexpected…?”

“Can I just pop in quickly? I wanted to talk to you?”

Grantaire blinked at the metal buzzer intercom as if it had begun to fly. “Um… Yeah, sure… Of course… I’ll… I’ll come and meet you on the stairs.”

He padded down the spiral steps, a maelstrom of thoughts with little clarity blurring the edges of his senses.

When he reached the base, the small wooden corridor seemed far smaller with Enjolras leaning in the corner, bike at his feet.

“Hi,” Grantaire said, tilting his head. “Didn’t expect to see you…”

Enjolras looked at him for a moment, as if weighing up what Grantaire was thinking. “Hey,” he sighed, “Sorry, this will have to be really quick… I’m super busy.”

“I’m sure you are,” Grantaire said, still lingering on the bottom step. He looked up into Enjolras’ face, close and wrought with worry.

“Um,” Enjolras traced a palm around the back of his neck, “Well. This might sound bad, but I had to tell you. I’ve… I’ve been fired.” The words were spoken brazenly, and where others may have dropped their gaze or lowered their voice, Enjolras just stared straight at Grantaire with an intensity that felt like a dare.

“I know,” Grantaire said. “I saw.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said, shoulders lifting an inch. “Good. Well that makes the explanation a little easier, then.” An expression passed over his face, half a grimace, half a plea. “You don’t have to say yes…” He paused.

“What’s the question?” Grantaire asked, the air somehow heavier than usual.

“I’m starting a new ballet company, and I’d like you to make our shoes.”

Grantaire heard the words echo from the walls of the tight corridors, saw them slip from the curves of Enjolras’ lips, but still he could not comprehend them. “Sorry?”

“Like I said - you don’t have to say yes. If it affects your work with the National company, then I completely understand. I just thought I would try my luck with Paris’ best.”

“Are you trying to charm me?”

Enjolras smiled, the expression turning his face into a painfully wondrous sight. “A little charm never hurt anyone… Is it working?”

Grantaire looked over the defined features on Enjolras’ face and wondered how anyone could ever say ‘no’ to him. “You’re starting a new company?”

“I am,” Enjolras said.

“And you need new shoes… short term?”

“Long term, hopefully.”

Grantaire paused, though he knew he would have said yes to almost anything Enjolras could have requested.“Okay…”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Grantaire said. “That works for me.”

Enjolras beamed, glowing a little more, his posture perfecting so that even merely standing looked like a dance move. “Wonderful. I appreciate it, R. Thank you for putting your trust in me.”

Grantaire dropped his eyes. “It’s just shoes.”

Enjolras laughed and reached to shake Grantaire’s hand. “I’ll be in touch. Perhaps it would be best if you come in for a fitting with the company sometime this week.”

“This week?” Grantaire coughed, “So quickly?”

“We’ve been planning it for a while. Why did you think I had been buying pointe shoes from you for months?” he smiled, placing his hands on the handles of his bike, ready to go. Grantaire did not feel like admitting he hadn’t known male dancers did not tend to dance in pointe.

“Should I get your number?” he asked, just as Enjolras was turning to leave.

“My number?” Enjolras paused. “Good idea. Then I’ll be able to contact you directly about the shoes… Let me put my number in…” He reached for Grantaire’s phone, and Grantaire fumbled, bringing it to the contacts page. He could not draw his eyes away as Enjolras’ long fingers curled instinctively around the phone - his skin illuminated by a neon blue glow. “Here,” he said, handing Grantaire’s phone back. Grantaire cleared his throat. “Alright. I have to go. I’m running through Paris like crazy, trying to scoop up all the dancers and creatives I want to work with…”

Grantaire felt the edges of a smile curling at his lips. “That sounds like quite a mission.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and shook his head, hair tumbling around his shoulders like a fairytale prince. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said, “But Paris never sleeps, and nor shall I! See you later, R. Thanks so much.” He twisted his bike around in the narrow corridor, and slipped from the door. Grantaire stood, frozen, on the bottom step. Through the wooden door, he could hear the low steady click of a bicycle chain fade from earshot, and the rumble of city echo around him, swallowing him whole.

~*~

When Grantaire arrived home, the apartment was crammed to the brim with Éponine’s dance crew. Grantaire left their meeting in peace, while he decided to sketch in his room, hearing the hissed conversations swell into full arguments - words hardly concealed by the paper thin walls.

The Patron-Minette dance crew were struggling. They hadn’t performed in any shows for months, and money was drying up, which left them with no funds to hire rehearsal space, or buy costumes. The tensions had been running high for weeks, but the ferocity of Éponine’s tongue suggested that Grantaire was an unwanted witness to the climax.

He shoved his earphones in and continued to draw, until the sky outside had somehow turned inky black, and the only light in the room was from his laptop.

“Hey, R,” there was a rap at his door. “I’m heading off now…”

Grantaire looked up from his work, and switched on his lamp, watching the loping gait of Montparnasse edge towards his bed. Montparnasse was Éponine’s second in command - wiry and delicately-boned, with sharp, cutting eyes.

“Good to see you, man,” Grantaire said, bumping fists.

Montparnasse paused for a moment.

“Wanna sit?” Grantaire asked, making space on the edge of his bed. Montparnasse sat primly at the end. “Things aren’t good?”

Montparnasse’s lips turned up in a wry twist. “That’s putting it lightly.” He sucked in a breath of air and massaged his knuckles - the ink of intricate tattoos morphing under his touch.

Éponine stepped forward, framed in the light of Grantaire’s doorway. “D’you mind?” she said, joining them on the bed as they sat in silence.

“This sucks,” Éponine sighed, resting her head on Montparnasse’s shoulder. Then quieter, as if she was forming the idea in her head for the first time. “I think I’m gonna have to give up freelancing and go back to bartending.”

“Adulthood is the worst,” Montparnasse agreed, squeezing her shoulder. “You’ll be fine, Éponine.”

“Give us some good news, darling Grantaire,” Éponine said, turning her dark eyes to him, “I’m in desperate need of something nice…”

“Um,” Grantaire glanced from his window, “I saw Enjolras again today.”

Éponine leant forwards, her hands fluttering to her throat. “No way! Did you tell him how good he looked in tights?”

“Obviously not,” Grantaire said, “Although true, it wasn’t the right moment to bring up his legs…”

“Ooh,” Montparnasse grinned wickedly. “Dancers love it when you bring up their legs.”

“Yeah,” Éponine giggled, “When you bring them up over your shoulders!”

“So crude!” Grantaire laughed, falling back against his pillow and banishing the sight of Enjolras with his lean legs around Grantaire’s shoulders from his mind. “So awful, both of you.”

“You’re blushing,” Montparnasse cawed - he and Éponine seemingly forgot their problems in a mere moment.

“I’m not,” Grantaire covered his cheeks.

“You’re blushing like a sweet country maiden!”

“I’m red because I’m so aghast at your antics,” Grantaire parried back, shaking his head. “Anyway, he came to visit because he got fired from the Paris National Ballet company, and wanted me to make shoes for his new company.”

“What the _hell?_ ” Montparnasse gaped, “ _That_ guy?” he clicked out his fingers, “Damn… he _does_ have good legs.”

“Oh my God,” Grantaire couldn’t stop the laughs hiccuping out of him, “Shut up about his legs… Jesus!”

They all tried to put a serious expression on their faces, but Grantaire’s lips were the first to wobble into the edge of a grin, and they all fell into hysterics - the stresses of life slicing away and crumbling to the floor.

A while later, Grantaire sent an uncomplicated text to the new number in his phone.

_‘Hey, Enjolras. It’s R. Looking forward to working together.’_

An hour passed before his screen lit up with an even simpler message.

_‘Me too :) -E.’_

He stared at the text until no more meaning could be leached from the nine characters, and went back to sketching - drawing strong hands and soft eyes, and finally drifting to sleep, pencil still curled in his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh-oh! I WONDER who will have to spend a lot of time together if they are working together? I WONDER who this mysterious new dance company will comprise of.... so much mystery....... (tbh not hard to guess though, is it? lol) 
> 
> In other news why am I obsessed with writing about Enjolras in good lighting? Why am I obsessed with a Montparnasse/Ép/Grantaire friendship ALWAYS and WHY do I LOVE these boys SO MUCH?
> 
> As always, I would love to know what you think! Every comment extends my life by 10 years (lol) thanks so much for reading!! <3


	7. Rehearsal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire visits the dance company: Les Amis de l'ABC. The chaos is warm and Enjolras is golden, and Grantaire finds that he quite enjoys being with them.

Grantaire arrived outside an ominously tall building - ramshackle enough in a way that was unclear whether it was about to collapse, or whether it was just part of the hipster aesthetic. He checked the map on his phone and stepped through the doors.

He was already late, but work had ran over, and he was now dawdling to put off his apology for his tardiness.

“Hi,” he said at the reception, “I’m here for a rehearsal.”

“Name?” the receptionist said, clicking through her laptop.

“I think it’s under Enjolras…”

The woman looked him up and down, her lips curled. “Haven’t seen you around before. You a dancer?”

Grantaire looked down at himself, raising an eyebrow. “Wow,” he laughed, “I can safely say I have never been asked that before. My general lack of physique and grace would suggest not.”

She smiled tightly. “You never know with Enjolras’ ragtag bunch… Anyway, they’re up on the fifth floor. I can ring up for them to collect you, if you’d like?”

“No, no,” Grantaire waved a hand, “I’ll make my way up there on my own. Thank you.”

“It’s room 5B.”

Grantaire thanked her again and began the ascent of the stairs, trying to avoid the pointed glances from very tall and very thin dancers, floating down the steps with a mystical quality. He noticed how heavy his foot-fall was, and how bulking his shoulders were, and how scruffy his boots looked in comparison to their small, delicate slippers that fell, soundlessly.

He suddenly remembered how much he usually hated spending time with ballerinas and debated stomping down the five flights of stairs and just going to bed.

Once on the fifth floor, room B was blatantly ten feet away from Grantaire, and he could waste no more time sluggishly trawling his way there.

As slow as humanly possible, he knocked on the door, anticipating a room full of long-necked dancers whipping their heads towards him when he entered.

A moment passed, and just as Grantaire raised his fist to knock louder, the door swung open and a man stepped out.

He was small and dressed in grey athletic-wear, a sprig of dark curls bouncing around his ears. He lightly pulled the door shut and glanced at Grantaire. “Sorry, we’re in the middle of rehearsal. Our…” a grin played across his face, “Our fearless leader doesn’t appreciate the distraction.”

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asked.

“Ah!” the man beamed, “You know him? You should have said!” he kissed Grantaire’s cheeks loudly and shook his hands. “I’m sure he will be delighted to see you!”

“Oh?” Grantaire was a little taken aback.

“Who are you?”

Grantaire grimaced. “Maybe I should come back when you’re not rehearsing. I’m just here to take some measurements for the shoes.”

“Ah! The shoemaker!” the man threw his arms up, “Well, why didn’t you say? We’ve been waiting for you with baited breath.”

Grantaire sunk even more. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

The man laughed and waved his hands flippantly, “Don’t worry so much, darling! We won’t bite… Well, I can’t speak for all of us… You never truly know, do you? Not that I would be one to judge.”

“What?” Grantaire said.

“Sorry, oversharing. It really flusters Enjolras. He gets all pink and lovely. I’m sure you’re aware… anyway, how rude! I didn’t even introduce myself. I’m Courfeyrac. Let me take you in, and when the song ends we can introduce you.”

They slipped quietly into the room, overly cautious, like teenage lovers sneaking from a window.

It was a large studio - and in the centre of Paris - it must have cost an absolute fortune. Rehearsal barres lined the room, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. It was busy, with figures stretching out muscles to a stream of classical music. In the corner, a battered, mahogany piano swelled with the velveteen tune, played by a man with spectacles perched on his nose, eyes drifting shut at the sound.

Grantaire recognised the halo of Enjolras’ hair, though his face was pressed into the floor, legs outstretched. Elsewhere, somebody was horizontal at the barre, their thigh against their ear. Slippered feet were stretched into hands, a ripple of movement passing through the room every few moments as the dancers changed their stretch, and Grantaire felt suddenly hyper-aware that each of the dancers in the room could likely crush the life out of him with a single toe. He tried to stand even more silently.

“Two minutes left,” said the pianist, his voice surprisingly soft and feathery. He continued to play, dazzling Grantaire with his ease. After the two minutes ended, his playing drew to an end, and Enjolras stood, rolling his shoulders, and looking to the crowd before him.

“Let’s head to the barre,” Enjolras said, sweeping his hands into a clap.

“Enjolras, darling,” Courfeyrac said, raising his hand, “Your shoemaker is here.”

Enjolras turned, an expression of bewilderment soaking in his blue eyes. “Oh,” he said. Grantaire grinned toothily at the roomful of people staring at him. “R. How lovely to see you.”

“Hey,” Grantaire said.

The smile that Enjolras gave him was dazzling enough to bring nations to their knees.

“Hey guys,” Enjolras waved a hand, “This is R. He’s been making my shoes for three years, and said he’d make shoes for all of us.”

A high-pitched squeak came from the middle of the room, and a dancer ran to Grantaire’s side. She pushed a few straggling strands of golden hair from her rosy cheeks, a smile peeping from her rosebud lips. “It is so wonderful to finally meet you!” she said, offering her hand, “I’m Cosette. I’ve been buying your shoes for about a year and a half now!”

Grantaire was taken aback by her overspilling warmth. Most dancers he had met had sneered down their noses at him. “It’s been my honour,” he said, lightly brushing his lips on the back of her hand.

“Talented _and_ a perfect gentleman!” Cosette said to Enjolras, “I _knew_ we had the best shoemaker in Paris.” 

“We only chose the very best,” Enjolras shot a quick grin at Grantaire. “Okay, R. Maybe if we each have individual fittings with you, while rehearsing. It will give you a bit of a chance to get to know us and our personal dance style.” He turned to the pianist, “’Ferre, can you play some plié music? And guys, head to the barre… We’ll do four demi pliés, then four grande in first, then second, third and fifth position. Then turn and do the other side. Got it?”

The room called out their understanding and Enjolras gestured Grantaire to the set of chairs in the corner of the room.

“Might as well be me first,” Enjolras said, “So I can lead the rest of the rehearsal.”

“Of course,” Grantaire said, reaching for his tote bag filled with notepads and tape-measures. They sat, Enjolras slipping off his pumps.

“Thank you for helping us, R. I really appreciate it.”

Grantaire shook a hand and measured Enjolras’ foot from toe-to-heel, scribbling a figure down in his work book. “I like your message. I don’t mind making a few free shoes every now and again.”

Enjolras suddenly frowned. “ _Free?_ ” he said, “We are going to pay you…” his eyes flickered over Grantaire’s face, until he had to look away. “ _Of course_ we’re going to pay you. It would be against everything we stand for if we asked you for free labour…”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, a little gruffly, “Well… thanks…”

As he continued to scribble, he could still feel Enjolras’ eyes burning into his neck.

“You,” Enjolras started, his voice dropped to a whisper, “You believed in the message that much?” he asked.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “I mean-” he scrambled for what to say. He grinned cheekily, and decided on a lightly taunting tone. “Well, after seeing you dance… how could I _not_ believe in you?”

Enjolras turned a shade of bronzed pink. “Don't tease,” he said.

“I'm not. I'm nothing but serious,” Grantaire said, almost just for the thrill of watching Enjolras’ cheeks darken further. Their eyes caught and Enjolras looked away first, an echo of a laugh teetering uneasily from his lips.

“Thank you,” he said, weightily.

Grantaire nodded and returned to measuring the width of Enjolras’ heel.

After a few short moments, the sound of classical music galloping past, the steady thump of feet moving in time, the scratch of a pencil, and Enjolras’ soft soundtrack of breaths - all that Grantaire could hear - he placed his measuring tape down. “You’re all done.”

Enjolras smiled, stretched his toes, and scrunched his feet back into the soft ballet slippers. As he stood, he looked at Grantaire deeply and nodded.

“I’m glad I asked you to join,” he said frankly, “You make a good addition to Les Amis…”

“Les Amis?” Grantaire quirked an eyebrow.

“Les Amis de l’ABC,” Enjolras’ eye dropped into a quick wink. “Friends of the Activist Ballet Company. The world’s first social justice ballet troupe…”

Grantaire’s lips curled into a wry smile, a dry chuckle forming in his throat. He looked to Enjolras, who was sat primly with his lips pursed into a question. “Love the pun.”

Enjolras’ expression broke, once more, into the soft-sunshiney thing of lazy mornings. “I knew you were a fine choice,” he laughed. “Not enough people compliment my exquisite craft of punning.” He turned away.

“What a shame,” Grantaire said. “I’m shocked that the world isn’t a little in love with every golden word you speak!”

Enjolras gave a small frown, his eyes flitting over Grantaire’s features. His lips twitched, on the edge of a sentence. After a moment, a humoured huff echoed from his chest. “I hardly think that would ever be the case.”

Grantaire gestured to the room filled with people all a little in love with Enjolras’ golden words. “You’re doing a good job so far.”

“It’s small in the grand scheme of things,” Enjolras said, “For now. Anyway, thank you, R. I’m sure after three years of making my shoes you know my feet intimately enough by now.” He broke the intensity of eye contact and turned back to the room. “Jehan, do you want to have your fitting?”

A tall figure, dressed in a rather impractical-looking yellow waistcoat, with matching golden shoes, broke position and stepped away from the barre.

“Stop showing off, Courf,” Enjolras said with a laugh, “ _Petit_ battements _. Petit!_ Your leg is meant to be at a 45 degree angle, not next to your _ear._ ”

“My leg is clearly _only_ at a 90 degree angle,” Courfeyrac argued, “If it was by my ear… it would be _here…”_ he effortlessly stretched so his thigh was pressed to his cheek.

Enjolras took his place at the barre and rolled his eyes. “Okay, we _get it._ You can lift your leg high. Need I remind you that you learned those skills whilst in _Cats,_ the musical.”

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac gasped. “We made an agreement never to talk about _Cats_ again!”

The gold shoes padded next to Grantaire, who had barely been able to draw his eyes away from Enjolras' splendour.

“Welcome to the chaos, darling, I’m Jehan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yesss let's get READY for that joyous joyous les amis CHAOS! Why do I LOVE writing them just being soft and lovely? I cannot STOP. tbh writing this ramshackle bunch is the only thing keeping me going in lockdown lollll bless the lord for les amis. 
> 
> AS ALWAYS thank you SO much for reading! really am so touched by everyone who reads, leaves kudos or comments! cannot STRESS how much your comments make me cry with joy so tysm tysm ILY so MUCH!


	8. Ensemble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire meets Les Amis.

“Jehan,” Grantaire rolled the name across his tongue. “Love the shoes.”

The soft yellow slippers were embroidered with gold sunflowers on closer inspection.

“Thanks,” Jehan said, smiling dozily, “I made them myself.”

“No way?” Grantaire smiled, “Perhaps there’s no need for me to be here, then. I can’t embroider like that to save my life.”

“Well,” Jehan sat, slipping the shoes off, “When I say _made_ , I only mean customised. I just dyed them, and embroidered the flowers, and then stitched in the quote by the sole.”

“Impressive craftsmanship,” Grantaire said, recognising the flash of bronze lettering to be a Shakespeare quote.

Jehan quirked a brow, “Craftspersonship. I use they, them pronouns.”

Grantaire looked up with a nod, “ _Highly_ impressive craftspersonship,” he said with a smile that Jehan echoed back, “Sorry, Jehan. Do you mind if I take some measurements?” 

As he worked, a steady stream of satin-soft information poured from Jehan’s lips. It was _almost_ gossip, but definitely the most peculiar gossip that Grantaire had ever heard. Things like, “Musichetta and I are part of a coven, using ballet to cast spells,” and “If Joly was a day, he would be a Thursday. A lovely, sun-kissed Thursday mid-afternoon.”

“And what day would I be?” Grantaire laughed, after Jehan’s long-winded explanation.

“I can’t say for certain,” Jehan said, tilting their head from side to side, long dreadlocks falling in their eyes. “But a Friday night is calling out to me.”

“A Friday night, huh?”

“You seem like a perfectly respectable young man,” Jehan said with a wicked grin, “But I think you’re capable of great wildness.”

“Great wildness?”

“It’s in your aura, darling,” Jehan said with an open-mouthed laugh.

“I think you’d be a Sunday morning,” Grantaire said back, folding up his measuring tape.

Jehan smiled lazily. “You couldn’t be more correct. Wise _and_ atalented craftsperson. Perhaps you are the Goddess Athena reincarnate.”

“Nah,” Grantaire said with a grin. “I’m more of a Dionysus.” It was a joke, but not a lie. The reckless god of wine and pleasure was always the Greek deity that Grantaire had felt the closest affinity with.

“Then perhaps we ought to share a bottle of wine, or two,” Jehan retorted, wit sparking from behind their sunshine eyes.

“That would be my pleasure,” Grantaire laughed.

“Wonderful to meet you, R. I’m sure we will be fast friends,” Jehan shook Grantaire’s hand tightly and placed a kiss by either of his cheeks. “I’ll send Musichetta to you.”

Musichetta was already in pointe shoes when she walked to sit by Grantaire. She untied them and flexed her toes.

“Lovely to meet you, R,” she said politely, still pointing her feet. “Ugh I need to get used to wearing these hellish things again.”

Grantaire flipped over the shoe and recognised the bishop symbol, meaning the shoes were designed by his boss, Myriel. “The Old Bishop’s shoes are some of the most sought after shoes in the world,” Grantaire laughed, “I won’t tell him that you called them hellish.”

Musichetta massaged her heel. “They are _super_ old,” she said, “I haven’t danced in a good few years, and I’m a lot heavier than I was at fifteen.”

She was incredibly tall, Amazonian, almost. She was toned, but her stature and build was miles apart from from the frail delicacy of the ideal ballerina’s form.

Grantaire scribbled a few notes. “I’ll bear that in mind and try and make the most comfortable shoe for you…” he inspected her shoes and noticed the pressure points - the tears that betrayed where her weight was situated, and the arch of the shape of her feet. “These _are_ old shoes,” he remarked, “We haven’t used this stitching style… wow, not since I’ve been working there.”

“I think I bought them about… five… six years ago.”

“Why did you stop?”

She looked at him, a simmering humour painting across her dark brown eyes, “Puberty.” She pulled a face. “Ballerinas aren’t supposed to have hips… or boobs… or basically anything that suggests you’re not a literal child…”

Grantaire frowned. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Welcome to the world of professional ballet, sweetheart,” she smiled. “Just thank God that we have people like Enjolras and Cosette shaking things up.”

Grantaire looked over to where Enjolras was arched over the barre, his arm perfectly curved, his neck long and golden, each line of his body considered and skilfully placed. In the sunlight, he was reminiscent of a marble Greek statue, all carved beauty and strength. Grantaire did not believe in a God, but he found himself thanking one anyway. “Yeah,” he tore his gaze away and finished Musichetta’s measurements, “Thank God.”

~*~

Cosette’s fitting was brief, since Grantaire had been making her shoes for years. She was the only one in the room who fit society’s image of ballerina. All the while, she spoke with a bright, trilling sort of voice, all wonderment and euphoria.

“Oh,” she said, hands at her heart, “It is _so_ delightful to finally meet you!” she beamed at Grantaire, “And under such lovely circumstances as well!”

Grantaire measured the bridge of her foot. He laughed, good-naturedly. “Well, you _have_ just been fired…”

She waved a hand. “We _knew_ it was going to happen… Goodness! We _wanted_ it to happen. We didn’t want it to be brushed under the carpet.” She shrugged lightly, “For years and years the National Ballet Company was my biggest dream… and when I got cast in the company I was over the moon… And this year… getting cast as the understudy for the prima ballerina!”

As she spoke, Grantaire noticed the warm, glowing pink of passion settling in her cheeks. “It was your dream come true…” he said.

“It was,” she retorted. A silence briefly fell over her. “But then… it _wasn’t._ ”

“I understand,” Grantaire noted the stitching on her shoes ripping away. “Did you know Enjolras before you joined the National?”

She looked to where Enjolras led the group and smiled. “Yes… We met at ballet school.” A haze of memories floated across her pale eyes. “All the girls wanted to dance their pas de deux’s with him.”

Grantaire glanced over to Enjolras guiding Musichetta’s hand to the right position. “I imagine he’s a much sought after dance partner.”

Cosette grinned. “Yeah… he was. There were almost _no_ boys at the school, and almost all of the girls went crazy for him. I think we were all half in love with him.”

Grantaire did not find that hard to believe.

“But he didn’t pay any of us the slightest attention. Whenever he was your partner, you just hoped his hand would drop a little low on your hip, or he’d kiss you when you were chest-to-chest, or something as equally silly and romantic… but gosh, he was so invested in dancing, I don’t think he even noticed at all.”

“Did you ever get your silly and romantic moment?”

Cosette paused, eyes wide. Suddenly she snorted, the sound unexpectedly ungraceful. “With _Enjolras?”_ She laughed loudly, clutching at the edges of her stomach. “Oh my goodness…” her whole face was pink with joy. “When you’re thirteen, you’re clueless to a great many things…” she beamed, “Enjolras’ reason for a lack of interest in us girls was not just because he was such a focused dancer…”

“Oh,” Grantaire let the words echo around his head. “ _Oh.”_

He looked over, and noticed that golden hour had settled through the large glass windows. The carpet of Parisian life twinkled outside, the blares of car horns and bustling of crowds far away. Enjolras glanced around, the soft, hazy glow shrouding around him. He looked as though the sun itself had kissed him from head to toe, and painted him with splendour. Grantaire’s treacherous breath caught in his throat. Enjolras tilted his head, spirals of curls bouncing down across his face as his lips curved into a smile. Grantaire forced a gulp of oxygen into his lungs and smiled back. Enjolras turned to demonstrate another move, and Grantaire looked down to his hands, scribbling a nonsense figure into his notebook. 

Cosette broke his stupor with a twinkling laugh. “I’ll grab Joly for you… he’s a charm.” Cosette kissed him on each cheek. “Thank you for the fitting!” she flounced away, seeming to float across the floor to send the dancer to Grantaire’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short n sweet and SEVERELY LACKING in that gooodd e/r stuff, but I promise to you IT IS COMING. Gotta get a bit of that pining in first though... would it be an e/r fic WITHOUT pining? ANYWAY I LOVE all of les amis and I can't stop thinking about them being an amazing diverse ballet company and honestly I could just write 50 chapters straight of them chatting and hanging out but I WON'T because I know everyone (including me) just wants to see e/r PULL THEMSELVES TOGETHER. 
> 
> As always, let me know what ya think! Each comment makes my heart grow ten times... kind of a medical concern, but thank you anyway! THANKS SO MUCH FOR READING


	9. Soubresaut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras asks Grantaire to trust him, and how can he refuse?

Joly’s face was joyous as he sat - dark hair and dark eyes both shining under the neon electric lights.

“Bet I’m your easiest customer,” Joly smiled. “I’m Joly.”

Grantaire looked down to the one slippered foot, and the other which ended with a curved runner’s blade.

“Huh,” Grantaire said, “You’ve halved my workload…”

Joly laughed loudly, the sound all-encompassing and warm. “And doubled my own!” he threw his hands up in the air. “C’est la vie!” He slumped down into the chair and took his one shoe off. “And Enjolras wants me to be the first male, one-legged dancer en pointe… like… _Jeeze!_ Do I have to do _everything_ around here?” He laughed so hard that Grantaire couldn’t properly measure his ankle, because it was shaking so much.

“Have you not danced en pointe before?”

Joly looked pointedly to his prosthetic leg. “It’s bloody hard enough dancing without balancing my entire weight on the tips of my toes.”

“I’m certainly not envious of any of you,” Grantaire mused. “I tried wearing pointe shoes once and the pain was unbelievable after about two seconds.”

“Alright,” Joly grinned, “Now I’m worried about losing my other leg… you’re supposed to be putting me at ease!” He sighed a loud, dramatic exhale and wagged a finger at Musichetta. “I let that girl talk me into all sorts of nonsense.”

Grantaire tracked the way Joly’s eyes softened at the sight of Musichetta practising her pirouettes.

“You know each other well?”

Joly’s head tilted back as he laughed again. “ _Rather_ well.”

“Does everyone know each other here?”

“Everyone knows everyone… well… everyone _but you.”_ He tucked a hand under his chin and his olive-black eyes skittered around Grantaire’s features. “So, lovely R… How did you end up here?”

Grantaire chuckled softly. “I’m not sure I’m quite on the same level as you… I just happened to make Enjolras’ shoes… I’m not changing the ballet world like you guys…”

Joly wrinkled his nose. “Enjolras must have seen something in you or he would have found someone else.”

Grantaire shrugged and noted a measurement. “Yeah… he probably saw that I could make shoes.”

Joly squinted and shook his head. “Lots of shoemakers make good shoes.”

Another laugh rumbled in Grantaire’s chest. “I suppose you’re right.”

“So… what else?”

“There’s not much to say,” Grantaire flipped his notebook shut.

“Man of mystery,” said Joly. “I like it.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t mystery… my life is just lacking interest.”

Joly tucked his toes back into his ballet flat, noticing that Grantaire had finished. “We’ll see about that,” he said cryptically, flashing a mischievous grin. “All done now? Ah, well… you saved the best for last.”

“Um,” Grantaire scanned the room, “No. I haven’t taken Courfeyrac’s measurements.”

Joly’s face wrinkled. “Oh…” he rolled his eyes, “Courfeyrac isn’t a ballet dancer. Literally don’t let him get near pointe shoes. Even if he begs. If he breaks his ankles, we’ll get sued for millions.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “What is he doing here, then?”

“He’s Enjolras’ best friend…” Joly said as if this explained anything. At the sight of Grantaire’s blank expression he continued, “He’s a choreographer. He’s totally brilliant. Him, Enj, and ‘Ferre,” he gestured to the piano, “Are all total geniuses. Anyway. Courf pops in for the free rehearsals, sometimes helps with choreo, but mostly just keeps morale high.”

Courfeyrac was laughing easily at something Enjolras had said, his whole body racked with joy, fluid and all-encompassing. Grantaire even found himself smiling at the infectious happiness.

“Well. Hang around to the end of rehearsals… We might grab a drink.”

“How could I turn that offer down?” Grantaire smiled.

“Cheers, R. I look forward to trying on your death-trap shoe.” He gave a quick wink and bounded off to join the rehearsal.

Grantaire remained perched in the corner, scribbling down notes, and alterations, sketching shoes with tiny differences - trying to match the dancer’s need to the perfect shoes. As he drew, his professional drawings of ballet shoes descended into doodles of long legs, and curved feet, and rounded arms. A deep sense of calm passed over him, as the slow realisation dawned that the people he had spent the last hour meeting were all perfectly lovely, and had not lived up to the horror-filled expectations of ballerinas in limousines.

His night was empty, and he knew if he went home, he would just crash on the couch, and get drunk on cheap wine, and soak in misery and reminiscence. A night with new faces, new conversation - it called to him like an ancient melody. He had been a recluse for too long - too comfortable in his den of numb, never-changing contentedness with Éponine.

Grantaire suddenly broke from his sketching, hearing his name falling from Enjolras’ lips.

“You too, R…” Enjolras had said.

Grantaire looked up, tucking his pencil behind his ear, noticing the eyes of everyone scalding on his skin. “Hm?” he asked.

“We’re having a chat,” Enjolras offered, “Join us…”

Grantaire flipped his notebook shut, and joined the circle that had formed on the floor. As he sat, Enjolras smiled.

“Truly excellent work today, everyone,” Enjolras said, gaze sweeping across the room. “I don’t think the National company would believe their eyes if they saw how far we had come in just one rehearsal.” He spoke with the sort of ease that betrayed a private school education - vowels open and rounded, words tripping from his tongue with a gentle flowing current. From watching Enjolras’ interview with the press about his firing, Grantaire knew his words could whip up into a powerful tsunami of fervour. “We’ve taken the first step today.”

“We danced the first step,” Courfeyrac added. “Let’s _soubresaut_ our way to a new world of ballet. Vive la France!”

“While I definitely appreciate the vigour, Courf’,” Enjolras said with a grin, tilting towards Courfeyrac with a tender familiarity, “It is not the time for celebration just yet… We’ve only just started.”

“And we aren’t permitted to celebrate a beginning?” Jehan’s eyes were soft.

Enjolras tilted his head, and the way he looked, the way he mulled over the silence, it was clear he was someone who chose his words carefully. “Who would I be to not permit you to celebrate?” he asked lightly. “All I mean, is we have a long way to go. Honestly, I could not have chosen any other people that I would rather have at my side. The road to equality is a long one, but we have one another.”

“Aw,” Musichetta said, “Sweet Enjolras should visit more often.”

“I’m _always_ sweet,” Enjolras retorted. At the volley of laughter from the room, he raised his brows dramatically. Grantaire felt slightly as though he were intruding on a private moment between close friends. “Okay, your incredulity compels me to be even sweeter! Before we head out, let’s talk through our next steps.”

“Number one,” said the pianist, who Grantaire had not had the chance to meet. “Publicity. There’s a little social media storm brewing at the moment. We have to make the most of it.”

“I think we should go head to head with the National…” Cosette added, rolling her bottom lip between her fingers, “As much as we can, without getting sued.”

“How?” Enjolras said, switching the full intensity of his attention to her.

“By showing people how much better _we_ can be,” Cosette said, waving an arm to the group, “Mock up their posters with us as the diverse dancers, post videos of us dancing their famous dances, do performances of the ballets that they perform year after year, but choreograph them so the storyline is modern, and diverse, and…”

“Better,” interjected Joly.

“Yes.” Cosette beamed. “Better.”

Enjolras nodded, face drawn solemn and still. “I like that a lot. I agree that the rivalry with the National is a good point to pivot from, but also think we should strongly consider creating our own _new_ work. Any other points?”

“Diverse costuming?” Jehan offered. “I know we’re all wearing pointe shoes, which challenges the gender norms… but I think tutus for all should be a human right.”

“Tutus for all,” Enjolras quirked a brow, “Noted.”

“And shoes,” Musichetta said, “Shoes that fit all of us individually.”

Enjolras looked to Grantaire as though he expected him to speak. “Um,” Grantaire said, lacking any form of eloquence. “I’ve been making notes on how to make the shoes work best for you… I’m _used_ to making shoes for tiny, skinny, girls, so it will be a learning curve for me to create shoes for different weights and genders and body types, but… please let me know if there is anything I can do to make the shoes any better for you…” he cleared his throat. “Um. I’m really looking forward to it, though.”

Enjolras held up a hand and any other rambling words stilled in Grantaire’s throat. “I must confess I sort of threw R into this with little explanation, so we can save this conversation for once we’ve all tried our new shoes. I’m sure once we have our prototypes, we’ll all have ideas for changes in colour, and embroidery, and shape… We can have a chat about that when the shoes are done.” He smiled at Grantaire, but Grantaire paled a shade.

He had no access to brightly coloured materials - he had pale satin pink, and a limited supply of red and white silks. He had never embroidered a day in his life - his stitching skills were elementary. He had always made his shoes identical - with slight alterations for foot size and shape, but Enjolras was making it sound as though he expected revolutionary shoes for his revolutionary ballet company. Grantaire cracked his finger joints in his palms, feeling massively under-qualified.

He could hardly listen to the reams of ideas strewn around the room. Bright minds and bright eyes electrified the space, but he could not tear his mind from the fact he would have to let Enjolras down.

After the chatter drew to a close, the group bounced to their feet, collecting tote bags, nestling into jumpers, changing shoes, swigging from reusable water bottles. Grantaire lingered by the piano.

“Enjolras?” he braved, after watching the dancer sink into an enormous red sweatshirt, struggling to pull his locks of hair from the collar.

“Hm?” Enjolras turned, and Grantaire was sure he could never get used to the strength of that blue stare. “Are you joining us for a drink? We know a great spot called the Musain around the corner…”

“No,” he said, then scrambled for words as Enjolras’ lips parted. “I mean… I can. I just - I don’t…”

“Everything alright?” Enjolras surveyed every inch of Grantaire’s face.

“Um,” Grantaire nibbled the lower edge of his lip. A shallow sigh pierced his lungs. “I just wanted a quick word…” 

Enjolras glanced to the crowd of dancers that were swarmed by the door to the studio, curious eyes on them. He spoke to them, over Grantaire’s shoulder, “You guys go ahead… Just having a quick shoe meeting.”

“Don’t be long!” Courfeyrac beamed, and along with a handful of other farewells, they traipsed their way down the stairs, leaving Grantaire and Enjolras alone.

“Are you alright?” Enjolras’ forehead carved into a marble frown.

“I think you’ve asked the wrong person to be your shoemaker,” Grantaire said grimly.

“I don’t think so…” Enjolras said almost instantly. “My judgement is not often wrong.”

Grantaire’s lips pursed. “I mean no offence, but you hardly know me.”

“Are you doubting my judgement?” Enjolras asked, and although a spark of good-humour lay within his eyes, Grantaire saw that an argument with Enjolras could be a deadly thing. He did not respond. “Why do you think that?”

Grantaire scratched at the back of his neck, longing for something to do with his hands. “I just… I just don’t think I’m good enough.”

Enjolras’ gaze turned more calculating.

“I’m not fishing for compliments… I couldn’t care less about compliments,” Grantaire interjected quickly. “I’m telling you honestly that you need someone more qualified. I can’t do embroideries… I don’t have access to colourful silks… There will be shoemakers who are older, more qualified and who have more materials…”

“But I don’t want someone else,” Enjolras said, stubborn. “I want you.”

“But…” Grantaire could not find the words to say. His throat felt unfairly dry all of a sudden.

“Don’t stress about it, R. We’re all doing things we’ve never done before. That’s sort of the whole point of Les Amis… Pushing ourselves to create change.”

“I get that. _Obviously_ I get that. But you guys are doing the changing the world bit… I’m just making your shoes. A shoemaker has no business changing the world.”

“Don’t be cynical,” Enjolras said, “Every part of what we do is interlinked. In a way, the shoes are just as important as the people.”

Grantaire pulled a face.

“You’ll see,” Enjolras said. His stern look cracked into a smile. “I’ve got a vision. Trust me.” His gaze did not waver.

Grantaire’s chest felt heavy. “Okay,” he said softly, “I will.”

Suddenly Enjolras was all bright and smiling, as blinding and brilliant as the sun. “Wonderful,” he said, pressing a hand to Grantaire’s shoulder - the touch was light, but it weighed warm on Grantaire’s skin. “Come on then, I’ll take you to the Musain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has been uploaded so quickly because I FELT SO MEAN leaving you high and dry without that e/r content everyone is here for... smh sometimes I get frustrated at my own slow burn but I tell ya, it makes it more worthwhile in the long run! 
> 
> also pls don't think I have forgotten ur faves who may not be here yet (bahorel,,, bossuet,,, marius,,, etc) they will be here eventually I PROMISE. 
> 
> also, feel like I need to get this out there, I'm feeling so heartbroken about everything going on atm, and I don't know what more I can say that has not already been said, but idk just know that this fic is written by someone who stands 100% with the black lives matter movement. donate if you can, protest if you can, uplift black voices and voices of all people of colour, and stand with George Floyd and everyone who has been systematically oppressed and murdered by a racist world. 
> 
> thank you so so much for reading as always, I would love to know what you think!! hope you are all safe and well <3 much love and positivity! <3


	10. Développé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting at the Musain ends a little drunker than expected, and somehow dancer and shoemaker are entangled.

The Musain was the sort of bar that Grantaire could get used to. The drinks were cheap, the view from the windows was wistful and shimmering, and the ballet troupe somehow seemed to have the whole back room to themselves.

They talked loudly, and laughed louder - growing in volume as the night wore on. Grantaire was packed between Jehan and Musichetta, and was having a conversation that spiralled into ridiculousness further with each word.

“I’m just saying,” Jehan sang, “In an alternate life I am living the dream cottagecore life… Making honey from apples and dancing to birdsong… honestly I’m bored of city living…”

“Go, babe,” Musichetta offered, “I _know_ you would be bored to death after two days on your own.”

“I’ll go with you,” Grantaire offered, feeling fuzzy and warm.

“ _R_ will come with me,” Jehan beamed, throwing an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders. “And he’ll make me soft satin shoes out of flower petals.”

“And I’ll forage berries for supper, and dew drops to drink…” Grantaire said. “This sounds like a dream.”

“Yeah,” Musichetta snorted, “Because it is impossible.”

Both Jehan and Grantaire booed loudly, bodies bouncing off one another and grinning into their glasses.

“Don’t encourage Jehan, darling,” Musichetta offered, reaching out a hand and patting Grantaire’s forearm. “They can lead even the most sensible folk astray with their unending _whimsy.”_

“My whimsy is my greatest trait,” Jehan countered.

Grantaire laughed and rolled up his sleeves, head spinning pleasantly.

Jehan cooed and lifted Grantaire’s hand delicately by the fingers. “Look at that!” they said, reverently. “Gorgeous.”

Grantaire glanced down to his arm and shook his head. “It’s nothing special. I drew them years ago, and every day I notice something new that annoys me about them.”

“You _drew_ them?” Musichetta gasped. “Joly, darling, look! R drew his tattoos, aren’t they wonderful!”

Grantaire felt warm at the sudden attention. Across his arms were inked sketches, feathery and delicate, almost like lace drawn on his skin. Hints of gold and green ink glittered under the lowlights like hidden treasure. “They go all the way up…” he offered.

“Can we see?” Jehan implored.

Grantaire unbuttoned the top few fastenings on his shirt and slipped his shoulder out into the air.

“Oh there’s nothing more beautiful than a shoulder,” Jehan mused, “Tender and gorgeous. That is such lovely art, R.”

“So lovely,” Musichetta giggled, leaning her head onto Grantaire’s shoulder. The trio all realised at once how drunk they were.

“You should do the artwork for the ballet…” Jehan dropped their cheek onto Grantaire’s other shoulder, still bared to the air.

Grantaire huffed a sigh. “I think the shoes are going to be hard enough!” His voice plummeted out of him, louder than expected. Across the table, Enjolras, talking seriously to Combeferre, looked up. Somehow, under the flickering, electric glow, he seemed even more golden. His eyes dropped to the sliver of shoulder and chest exposed by Grantaire’s open shirt. Grantaire watched Enjolras’ eyebrows furrow and his gaze turn back to Combeferre. Grantaire hurriedly rebuttoned his shirt, unsure why his cheeks were setting aflame.

“Are you guys too healthy to smoke?” Grantaire asked, longing for a rush of cool air.

Musichetta nodded, and Jehan said - “Too healthy to smoke _cigarettes_ ,” pointedly.They gave an over-exaggerated wink, “If you know what I mean.”

“Ach,” Grantaire threw his hands up, “None of you are true Parisians.”

“Courfeyrac!” Jehan called.

Courfeyrac sat straighter, his eyes dancing to Jehan. “Are we going back to your place?” Courfeyrac said, over the din.

Jehan put a hand to their heart. “How rude! You only use me for my balcony!”

“Your balcony and your stellar personality,” Courfeyrac smiled. “What d’you want?”

“Our lovely new member is looking for someone to smoke with…”

Courfeyrac clapped his hands together and stood, patting at the back pockets of his insanely tight jeans. “Finally! Someone with a a jot of bad sense! Do you have a lighter?”

Grantaire grinned, flashing his lighter. “Let’s destroy our lungs a bit.”

“Ah, R. You _know_ life isn’t worth living without a little destruction.”

~*~

The pair smoked, stubbing their cigarettes into an overflowing ashtray.

“Joly said you weren’t a ballet dancer?” Grantaire asked, the bite of nicotine kicking the back of his throat.

Courfeyrac shifted closer and crossed his ankles. “I do a bit of everything. Musical theatre, mostly.”

“Like _Cats?_ ”

He buried his face in his hands, dark hair falling in his eyes. A deep, guttural moan echoed in his throat. “I can never escape that dark, dark time in my life.” His shoulders shook with laughter. “Why must my legacy be linked with a magical, spell casting Cat? This is not what I wish to be remembered for!” He looked up towards the sky, as though praying. “Sometimes at night I lie awake, and all I can hear is the distant, screeched echo of _‘Oh well, I never was there ever a cat so clever…’_ Christ Almighty. Yes. Like _Cats.”_ He took a drag from his cigarette. “I only took the job because I look good in leggings!”

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Grantaire teased, “For all I know… _Cats_ could be a masterpiece.”

Courfeyrac laughed loudly. “It really isn’t. It just paid well. God. Never again.”

“And… Enjolras?”

“Yeah, he looks amazing in leggings,” Courfeyrac’s eyes seemed distant, “I would kill for his legs…” At Grantaire’s amused expression, Courfeyrac added, “He’s never been in anything as embarrassing as me, though. He has always been a classier bitch than I.”

Grantaire snorted. “How did you guys meet?”

“We met in primary school. The three of us were probably the most pretentious clique in all of Paris.”

“Three?” Grantaire asked.

“Us and ‘Ferre. The pianist.” Courfeyrac smiled fondly. “Unbearable, I tell you. It was like the worst amalgamation of debate kid, meets theatre kid, meets nerd. Seriously… _unbearable.”_

“You can’t have been that bad!” Grantaire grinned.

“Darling, you’ve known us for a day. You are lucky enough not to have known us in primary school. We’ve, as a collective, mellowed. We were hellish infants.”

Grantaire exhaled a plume of smoke into the night air. “If Enjolras has _mellowed,_ maybe I’m glad I didn’t know him before. He’s a bit…”

“Intense?” Courfeyrac leaned in, whispering, “You get used to it.” He squeezed an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders. “Anyway, don’t say anything bad about him, or I’ll be forced to duel you over his honour. I love him with every inch of my soul.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything bad!” Grantaire protested. “I like him. And I don’t like many dancers!”

Courfeyrac gasped and flicked his hair. “Discrimination! I’m deeply offended! Perhaps I’ll have to duel you anyway! I graduated top of my class in stage combat, so watch yourself, R.”

“I’m not one to turn down a bit of sword fighting,” Grantaire said, tone playful.

“Tut, tut,” Courf winked, “Lots of tension between two swords.”

“Are you flirting with me, Courfeyrac?” Grantaire grinned.

Courfeyrac’s eyes were glazed. “Don’t take it personally,” he leant close, “I don’t know how to turn it off…” He stretched out. “Anyway, I’m too busy for relationships, R. So don’t fall in love with me. I know it must be hard…”

“Shame,” Grantaire joked, “If we were the dating sort… we’d be unstoppable.”

Courfeyrac waved a hand, “If us libertines were not libertines, there would be no hope for the rest of the population.”

From behind them a voice called, “Courfeyrac?” At the sound of his name, Courfeyrac turned to the back door. Enjolras’ head stuck out.

“Over here, darling!” Courfeyrac beckoned Enjolras over, and Grantaire tried to fix his uncooperative hair.

Enjolras sauntered over and put a hand on the bench. “Hey, ‘Ferre and I are heading home. You coming?”

Courfeyrac’s eyes drifted over Grantaire and he lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “What are your plans, R?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Are you rehearsing tomorrow?”

Courfeyrac groaned. “I did not think you would be a voice of reason. You’ve let me down.”

Grantaire stretched and stubbed out the remnants of his cigarette. Enjolras’ eyes were heavy on his face. “Nah,” he said, languorously, “I shouldn’t lead you astray.”

“I don’t think I could be led further astray,” Courfeyrac took his last drag of smoke. “Fine. Darling, Enjolras, you win. Let’s get an early night and be responsible.” He pulled a horrified expression. “My God! If twenty-one year old Courfeyrac heard me utter that sentence, he would disown me…” He coughed. “Disgusting. You’ve corrupted me with your morally right ways,” he stood and shook his head at Enjolras. “I need to get Jehan to talk some nonsense into me. See you in a bit.”

Once again, Enjolras and Grantaire were left alone. Grantaire cursed all the gods that could have existed for how sloppy he must have looked. He felt his shirt ruched at the collar, knew his hair was untameable, and his eyes were glassy. He hardly looked professional. So much for making a good first impression as a talented craftsman.

Enjolras couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away.

“Sorry,” Grantaire said, trying with all his might not to slur, “I must look a hot mess.”

Enjolras inhaled so sharply that Grantaire could see his chest heave. “No. No, you don’t,” Enjolras said, seemingly unaware of the frown on his forehead. “Not at all.”

Grantaire was somehow struck speechless - usually he couldn’t _stop_ talking when he was drunk.

Enjolras continued, “I think everyone is thinking of heading home now. You coming?”

Grantaire nodded and stood, his foot entangled with the bench leg. With a lurch he wobbled in the air, throwing his arms out for balance. Enjolras jolted forwards and steadied Grantaire by the shoulder, one hand crashing into his chest.

“Careful,” he said softly, hands warm against Grantaire’s skin.

“God,” Grantaire turned red, “My foot got tangled. I’m not _that_ drunk.”

Enjolras looked down to Grantaire’s chest, and his hands splayed across them. He slowly retracted his palms, just as Grantaire reached up to scratch his scalp. Their knuckles collided in mid-air, freezing for a second like wine glasses clinking a cheers.

“Um,” Grantaire felt his levels of integrity plummet further with each moment that passed. “I wouldn’t make a great dancer with _that_ shoddy balance, would I?”

Thankfully, Enjolras laughed, and the tension broke. As he stepped back, the emptiness between them startled Grantaire. He hadn’t realised they had drifted so close.

The pair ambled back inside to the sweltering warmth of the Musain. Just before they re-entered the swell of Les Amis’ conversation, Enjolras pulled back.

“Will you come to an early rehearsal with me?” he said lowly. Grantaire had to lean closer to hear.

“An early rehearsal? Why?”

“I just want to prove something to you…” Enjolras said.

Grantaire felt an unbidden thrill race through his veins. “What?”

Enjolras smiled widely. “You’ll see. Not tomorrow. The day after. Before your work starts. Around sixish? Does that work for you?”

Grantaire, who was begrudging enough to get up at ten to go to work, nodded.

Enjolras smiled and fastened the lapel of his coat, stretching out his shoulders, and towering over Grantaire. “Lovely. Can’t wait. See you then, R.” Enjolras looked around and caught eyes with Combeferre. “Bye guys!”

The Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac trio waved their goodbyes, showered with farewells from the group. Magnetic and bright, they somehow made the Musain shadowed when they left. Grantaire stared at the gap where they had just been. Suddenly the night felt heavy and the sky seemed to dim the stars in their absence.

That night, as he tried to coax himself into sleep, Grantaire could not escape the shock of electric blue eyes that swam in the conciousness behind his own eyelids in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love the musain! love les amis! LOVE e/r and LOVVVEEE a classic stumble into each other's arms moment.... the lovely pining goes on (bUT (spoiler) not for long!) 
> 
> thank you so much for reading and always leaving such lovely comments, ngl the only thing that keeps me writing and updating is reading how lovely y'all are - smh this lockdown is doing NOTHING for my creativity. Thank YOU! Let me know what ya think as always! MUCH LOVE <3


	11. Glissade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire kind of regrets agreeing to a 6am meeting, until he gets there and Enjolras is as resplendent and other-worldly as ever.

Two days later, when his alarm rang at five in the morning, Grantaire considered cutting his losses and starting a new career, just so he would not have to wake so early.

He rolled from bed, hardly able to open his eyes to the blare of his lights. He twitched the curtains open, his heart sinking at the sight of the dark sky, the sun not even risen.

_‘Why am I doing this to myself?’_ he thought, before remembering all at once the very specific, golden-haired reason why he was - Enjolras.

He made his coffee strong, tried his best to wrangle with his curls- which grew wilder each day - and stared at Éponine blankly.

“What are you doing?” they both said at once, eyeing each other in shock.

“I haven’t slept yet. Are you _going out?”_ Éponine gaped. She was sat curled on the sofa, laptop sliding off her knees.

“I’ve got to go to rehearsals for some reason,” Grantaire said, voice unendingly scratchy. “Why the hell did I agree to this?”

Éponine squinted, “Are you being blackmailed?” She shook her head. “Being held hostage? Is someone threatening you?”

“No, I’ve just completely lost my mind. Anyway. Gotta catch the first train or I’ll be late.” He swooped to drop a light kiss on her forehead. “Get some sleep, Ép.”

“Mm,” she said, fisting a handful of his emerald jumper, “You smell really good. Is that Montparnasse’s fancy aftershave?”

Grantaire raised a brow. “Um. I obviously own my _own_ aftershave…”

Éponine narrowed her eyes again and her bleary gaze examined him. “Highly suspicious. This does not compute to my sleep-deprived brain.”

“ _Go_ to sleep!” Grantaire grabbed a blanket and chucked it over to his roommate. She smiled and snuggled down, face still lit by the blue glow of her laptop.

As Grantaire travelled there, he was confronted with a whole different breed of commuters than the ten A.M bunch. The travellers of 5:30 were woven together in their joint exhaustion and misery. The train carriage was filled with lots of dark encircled eyes, heavy, low gazes and slumped shoulders. Grantaire was so out of sorts, that he almost missed his stop, and flew out of the train, panting, as the doors snapped shut. He rushed to the studio, still wondering why on earth Enjolras had asked him to come so early.

“Morning,” Grantaire said to man on reception. “I’m here for Enjolras.”

The man waved him up the stairs, and Grantaire took them two at a time, hoping to redeem himself with punctuality after his display of unkemptness at the Musain. He knocked tentatively on the studio door.

Combeferre, the pianist, creaked open the door, and smiled politely at Grantaire as he entered.

“Oh, good morning, R. I’m Combeferre. We didn’t get a chance to properly meet the other day.”

“Hey,” Grantaire kissed either side of Combeferre’s cheeks, having to tiptoe slightly. “Yeah. I’m intimately familiar with everyone’s feet beside yours.”

Combeferre laughed. “Let’s keep it that way for now, huh?” He strode across the room and slipped into the seat behind the piano with a slick sort of grace. “Enjolras just popped out for coffees. He should be back in a second.”

Soft music stemmed from Combeferre’s fingers. He played with a gentle ease - lifting the music from the old piano like it was a buried away artefact. Grantaire slumped and scrolled mindlessly through his Instagram.

Enjolras arrived in a flurry, hands filled with reusable coffee cups. “Morning folks!” he said brightly, putting the cups on the top of the piano. “Good to see you!”

Grantaire wondered how it was possible for a human to have so much energy at the crack of dawn.

“R, I didn’t know what your coffee order was, so I just got you a black coffee.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, “I didn’t expect you to get me anything. How kind… thank you.” He grabbed the travel mug and sipped, the warm bliss coating his throat.

“Okay. No time to waste!” Enjolras said, slipping off his coat and laying it on a chair. He shucked out of his shirt and trousers.

Grantaire saw the stretch of bare skin from toe to neck and promptly choked on his coffee.

“S- sorry,” he spluttered.

Enjolras’ grin was a shade wicked. “Ballet leggings,” he said, with an experimental stretch of his calf, the material of his leggings the same dark shade of his skin.

Combeferre winked. “Enjolras isn’t the flashing type.”

“Certainly not after only knowing you for a few weeks!” Enjolras laughed.

Grantaire turned pink. “No, I had something in my throat,” he lied weakly.

Combeferre continued to play, but Grantaire heard a low sniggering from his direction.

“Okay, shoes!” Enjolras said, whipping a pair of Grantaire’s pink pointe shoes from his bag. He dropped to the floor and deftly put the pointe shoes on, fingers weaving the ribbons up his shins. After a moment he was back on his feet, and stretching his muscles at the barre. “Right, R. I’ll be with you in a second. I just have to warm up.”

“Sure, no problem,” Grantaire said, watching Enjolras lift his leg to an 180 degree angle with astonishing ease. He stared into his coffee cup to distract himself.

After around five minutes of blatantly ignoring Enjolras’ phenomenal flexibility - it almost felt to Grantaire that he was watching something illicit that he shouldn’t be privy to - Enjolras shook out his limbs and took a spot in the centre of the room.

“R,” he began, “Just watch, okay? Watch me and watch my shoes.” He peeled his toes back so his feet were perfectly turned out. “’Ferre, if you don’t mind…”

Combeferre switched to a yearning, silken sort of song. The music was lovely, but Enjolras was even lovelier. He stood frozen for a moment, arms outstretched in an airy, light position. His every muscle, from his core to the tips of his fingers were placed with a delicate precision. Even his stillness was a dance of its own.

The trickle of music grew in crescendo, and Enjolras stepped into motion, as sudden and smooth as a dancer on a music box. A fluidity poured between every inch of him - he moved as though made from molten silver. His legs were impossibly long and each time he stretched one out, balancing on his toes, Enjolras appeared so resplendent that he hardly looked human. His pirouettes left Grantaire’s head spinning, he rotated so quickly around and around, but remained perfectly balanced, breaking the turns with an intricate sequence of leaps and twists in mid-air. Throughout, his arms were held gracefully, his head moved with the turns, sharp and delicate all at once. His eyes were focused, but a soft longing expression passed over his face - he acted as well as he danced.

Grantaire felt like all the air had been stolen from his lungs.

Enjolras was other-worldly - making the impossible feats of gravity look as simple as walking.

The melody grew and arched, Enjolras bounding from one side of the studio to the other, drawing the piece to an end with a dozen spins - travelling until he was mere feet away from Grantaire. The music stopped, and Enjolras stood frozen, arms outstretched, one leg pointed skyward, as still as marble. The only part of him that moved, was the stretch of skin across his chest, pulsing with his each deep breath. In an instant, the dancer Enjolras transformed into the mortal man. He stepped out of position, shaking the tension from his shoulders. Grantaire gave a round of applause, the sound echoing quietly through the silent room.

“Thank you,” Enjolras grasped his hands together. “What was wrong?”

“Wrong?” Grantaire asked. “Nothing. You were… great. It looked great. Perfect.”

Enjolras shook his head, hair flaring around his bare shoulders. “No. There was something wrong.”

“Um,” Grantaire tried to remember what he had seen objectively. All his mind eye could focus on was the grace and majesty, and the tightness of Enjolras’ leggings. “Um. Your… pirouettes?”

Enjolras flinched back, a scoff scraping the inside of his mouth. “My? - No. _My pirouettes are perfect_ \- I… No!” he squinted. “Sorry, no. Not my pirouettes.”

Combeferre quietly snorted in the background.

“Look,” Enjolras said, gesturing down to his leg. “What can you see?”

Grantaire felt a warmth creep into his cheeks. “Your… leg?”

Enjolras turned his leg out, and gestured from the roots of his hair, right down to the tips of his toes. “Look. It’s seamless. All brown. Skin, leggings, all the way down to…” he pointed to the pink ribbons wrapped around his ankles. “Then pink. Pink ribbons and pink shoes.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said.

“Why do you think ballet shoes are this light shade of pink?” Enjolras would not drop Grantaire’s gaze. “Because until recently, the only people wearing pointe shoes were rich, white girls.” Enjolras stepped forwards, and dropped to sit next to Grantaire, startlingly close. Close enough that Grantaire could see shimmer of perspiration on his skin, the dark blush of exertion painted across his cheeks. “The other day you said you couldn’t make ballet shoes in other colours… but do you not see how important that is?”

“I-” Grantaire felt ashamed. “I didn’t know that this was what you meant…”

Enjolras took a moment to untie his ribbons and slip the pumps off. He redressed, throwing on his shirt and sliding his feet back into his black Doc Martens. “That was why I wanted to show you,” Enjolras said, his shockingly pink lips curving into a smile. “If you need more money to supply different shades of silk, we will obviously provide that for you.”

“Okay, of course. Anything,” Grantaire said. A few weeks ago, if a dancer had asked for shoes that were not the industry-standard pink, he would have rolled his eyes and not understood.

“I knew I wasn’t wrong about you.” Enjolras reached for his bag and pulled it close. “You want to see what we have to do with pink shoes?”

Grantaire nodded mutely.

Out of the tote bag, Enjolras pulled an array of sponges and make-up.

“What’s this?” Grantaire asked.

“A stupid solution to a racist problem,” Enjolras said grimly, pouring a pool of dark foundation onto a palette. He dabbed a foam sponge into the foundation, and pressed it directly onto the pale pink shoe. He worked, head bowed, hands dancing quickly over the shoe until the pink gloss was transformed into a deep brown matte. He covered the ribbons last and held up his now brown shoe. “Do me a favour, R…” he said.

“Anything,” he said with a smile. “Will you have me shine your shoes before each showcase?”

Enjolras tilted his head. “Painting ballet shoes is called pancaking. Shining my shoes won’t help, unless you’re taking up a new career as a shoe-shine…”

Grantaire felt a lick of boldness across his lips. “I’d black your boots if you wanted me to, Enjolras.”

Enjolras finally dropped his gaze, his cheeks flooding with colour. He stared at his boots. “I’m not sure that will be necessary,” he said, a thumb dropping to the laces of his shoes. “But you can pancake the other shoe, if you like…”

Grantaire took the sponge from Enjolras, and stared at the pristine left shoe. “Are you sure? I don’t want to ruin it…”

With a wave of his hand, Enjolras pushed the palette of dark foundation towards Grantaire. “It needs to be done. Just don’t put it on too thick, or it won’t dry.”

Grantaire tentatively dabbed away at the satin, the process taking much longer under his broader hands. He held the shoe up, seeking Enjolras’ appraisal.

“Here,” Enjolras said, guiding Grantaire’s fingers to the edge of the sole. Their hands painted together, erasing any sight of pink silk. Enjolras’ palm was smooth and cool atop Grantaire’s. “Perfect.” His hand withdrew, leaving Grantaire’s skin cold. “Thank you…” he grabbed both shoes from inside and held them up, eyeing them in the sunlight. “He’s good!” he remarked.

Grantaire remembered with a jolt that Combeferre was still in the room.

Enjolras stood and put the shoes in a patch of sunshine. “Then we leave them to dry for an hour… and then…”

Combeferre spoke up. “Show him, Enj. Don’t you have a spare pair in your bag?”

Enjolras turned and winced. “He probably doesn’t just want to watch me dance all morning.”

“I do,” Grantaire said, cursing the quickness of his tongue, “I mean… Isn’t that why I’m here?”

Enjolras shrugged. “If you don’t mind. Okay. Fine, I’ll show you the difference.”

He slunk back out of his boots and clothes, retrieving an already pancaked pair of ballet shoes, perfectly matched to the shade of his dark skin. “I hope I’m not boring you, R.” He fastened the ribbons in seconds.

“Not at all,” Grantaire said.

“Okay,” said Combeferre, “From the top…”

Enjolras took his starting position, all long lines of limbs and elegance. Grantaire, who had not noticed how jarring the pink shoes had been before, knew all at once what Enjolras meant. With the painted shoes, the line from Enjolras’ neck, down his leg, and right to the tip of his toes was seamless - creating an illusion so that his already long legs seemed endless. As he danced and spun, the shoes did not stand out - they were a part of Enjolras, an extension of his very being.

It hit Grantaire all of a sudden, how unfair it was that lighter-skinnned dancers wore their pale pink tights and shoes without thinking twice, with no jarring difference between skin tone and outfit. How unfair it was that Enjolras, and his Les Amis, and thousands of other dancers had to paint their shoes themselves. Grantaire suddenly imagined young, dark-skinned ballerinas getting fitted for their first pair of pointe shoes, not experiencing the same carefree joy as white dancers. Suddenly he thought of his workshop, and the reams of pale satin and pink ribbon, and he felt furious at himself - for never considering something so core to his profession.

As the music built to its end, Grantaire was just as bewitched by Enjolras’ spins and leaps, but his mind frazzled itself with screaming loud thoughts. Enjolras smiled as he held his final position.

Grantaire checked his phone and realised it was past ten in the morning already. He stood.

“I’ll sort it out,” he said, wondering where to find suppliers with a range of skin-tone shades of satin. “I’ll do it.”

“Hmm?” Enjolras said, flinging his shirt back on again.

“I’m going to make the shoes for you personally. It’s ridiculous you have to paint them with foundation. I’ll find a way.”

Enjolras’ face burst into a smile - and his face was lovely without it, but the smile made him ethereal. Grantaire found it hard to look at him, as though he was staring directly into the sun. “I knew you’d come around.”

“You’re very persuasive. You should be a politician.”

Enjolras scrunched his nose. “I think I’m a touch too radical for politics.” He laughed. “Thank you, R. We’re going to do something wonderful together. All of us.”

He held out his hand and Grantaire slotted their palms together. Enjolras gave a tight squeeze.

Grantaire hoped to never move again, to remain the rest of his days palm in palm with Enjolras. “Call me Grantaire,” he said. “R is just my shoemaking name.”

“Grantaire?” Enjolras said, and Grantaire had never heard his name pronounced so deliciously, the sounds rolling across Enjolras’ tongue like chocolate. “Grantaire… Like _grand aire…_ Capital R. Smart.”

Grantaire blistered with warmth, his own face breaking into a grin. “Ahh!” he beamed, “Nobody ever gets it!”

Enjolras’ laugh was velvety and rich. “So sweet,” he said, and Grantaire had never been called sweet in his life before, but now wanted the word forever whispered against his skin, and etched on his gravestone. “I love it!” Their eyes caught, locking together for one intense, earth-shattering moment, and then flickering away.

Finally their hands drifted apart.

“Well,” Grantaire cleared his throat.

“You have work?” Enjolras finished.

“I do. I should go.”

“You should,” Enjolras nodded. “I’m so pleased to have met you,” Enjolras said, his candour striking Grantaire speechless. “And that you agreed to join us.”

“I’m pleased too.” There was a pause. “Well.”

“Go, go!” Enjolras gave Grantaire a slight push on the shoulder. “Don’t be late!”

Combeferre stood from the piano and reached to shake Grantaire’s hand. “See you soon,” he said.

“Bye,” Grantaire said to both, “See you later.” He retreated, and then spun, reaching the door and closing it behind himself.

Once in the privacy of the hallway, he allowed himself to breathe, his heartbeat skipping in the hollow of his chest. Enjolras truly was like a hurricane - Grantaire could not dare look away from him, and when he spun out of view, Grantaire was left slightly off-kilter, slightly off-balance. He rushed through the streets of Paris in a dream-like haze, his vision blurred with gold and pink satin.

Grantaire was unnerved.

He was never usually off-balance, or struck speechless, or lost in daydreams - but, then, he had never met anyone quite like Enjolras before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo here it is! the very scene that inspired me to write this whole damn fic. I LOVE a black-your-boots moment (even tho permets-tu is the quintessential e/r moment, R offering to black Enjolras' boots is also VERY iconic.) and then somehow it spiralled into dance shoes, and pancaking, and ta-da. 
> 
> side-note- I wrote this chapter weeks and weeks ago, and obviously with the blm movement being so important at the moment, it has become more culturally relevant than ever so yeah, keep fighting to raise black and poc voices - and non-diverse ballet shoes are a real problem - there's a BUNCH of really interesting articles and youtube videos about it if you want to learn more!! 
> 
> AS ALWAYS! thank you SO much for reading! we've hit 1k reads! :O shocking! I'm sorry (not sorry) that this chapter has more pines in it than a christmas tree forest (lol) Thank you for all your delightful comments - honestly they bring such a joy to my life! Let me know what ya think of this chapter!! <33


	12. Dégagé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has never been someone to put too much effort into anything, but for some "unknown" reason, he longs to make the greatest shoes for Enjolras.

Feuilly was already at the workbench, hands busy over satin, by the time Grantaire arrived to work.

“Did you sleep through your alarm again?” he asked, not looking up from his work.

Grantaire tutted. “I’m not late _that_ often.”

“Did you?”

“No! I actually woke up at five this morning!”

Feuilly finally glanced away from his work, pursing his lips together. “Do you mean you didn’t sleep at all?”

“This world is full of sceptics,” Grantaire grinned, “ _No!_ I actually had a full night of sleep and set my alarm for five a.m.”

Feuilly huffed a sigh and continued sewing, a curl of a smile on his lips. “Still late though, weren’t you?”

Grantaire laughed and settled at his desk, organising his supplies. “Touché.” He checked his list of clients and scribbled down some plans, trying to ignore the immensity of his workload _without_ pairs of revolutionary shoes for Les Amis. He focused and began carving the shanks - the hard leather soles. He made over a hundred, shaping them with precision, filing with sandpaper until the air around him was ablaze with dust.

“Hey, Feuilly?” Grantaire asked a few hours later, beginning to move onto shaping some boxes for the toes of his shoes.

“Hm?”

“Have you ever made shoes in different colours?”

Feuilly paused, staring to the corner of the room, recollecting an old memory. “I think I’ve made a few red pairs for Christmas shows. A couple of white pairs… Not really, though.” His face scrunched, freckles spilling over his cheeks. “You going rogue?”

“Something like that,” Grantaire said, raising a shoulder. “Someone wants me to make shoes in a range of skin tones… I just have to figure out the best way to source the material…”

“Someone?” Feuilly pouted his bottom lip before his mouth fell into a perfect ‘o’ shape. “Oh! Mr. Wow?”

Grantaire wrinkled his nose. “I’m not sure he’d like the name Mr. Wow…”

“It _is_ him!” Feuilly nodded. “How much is he paying you?”

Grantaire stared at the row of half-formed shoes before him. “I don’t know, actually…”

“Eh?” Feuilly folded his arms. “ _You don’t know?_ ”

“He said he’d pay me for the materials and stuff…”

“You just trust him blindly? He doesn’t even have a well-known ballet company behind him and he’s _just_ been fired… he could be broke as hell!”

Grantaire watched his hands quickly stitch the elastics into the right position. “No, I don’t think he’s broke.”

“Weird.” Feuilly scowled. “This is very out of character. What is he offering you, if not money…?”

Grantaire laughed. “What the hell, Feu? Is that how _low_ your opinion of me is? I think he’s organised something pretty cool… I have no ulterior motives.”

Feuilly shrugged. “You may be my best friend, but I _do_ have a very low opinion of you…”

Grantaire chucked a ball of ribbons at Feuilly’s head, the two of them breaking into laughter.

When he reached his lunch break, he took to the internet to search for distributors of a range of colours of satin - finding the hunt full of dead-ends and impossibly costs. He asked the Old Bishop a few discreet questions about their manufacturers, but found no answers.

At the end of the day, he grabbed a handful of material offcuts and tucked them into his bag. On his walk back, he swung by a paint shop, grabbing a basketful of dyes and paints, in a variety of skin-tones, from the soft peachy rose of Cosette’s skin, all the way to the warm midnight umber of Enjolras’.

At home, he spread newspapers across the whole apartment, changed into one of his old painting shirts, pinned his hair off his face and got to work.

It was not an easy task, and was filled with frustrations. A drop too much of the dye turned the satin too dark, blotching like ink spills on the fabric. Not enough left the pink streaking through the dye. He tried solutions of water mixed with dye, to no avail. He tried dabbing the brown shade on with a thin-ended paintbrush, and worked away for hours until the entire scrap was a shade of skin similar to his own. He held it up to the light, smiling, and left it for the night to dry, suddenly realising it was already almost morning.

The next day after work, he picked up his perfectly painted fabric, dismayed to see the dye just smudging off on his hands, the colour below murky and soiled.

He threw all of his scraps to the ground and stared at them sulkily, leaving to scour the cupboards for a forgotten bottle of wine.

And then he drank. He drank and he worked on the material, and he slept and worked and drank again, and days rolled into weeks and all he could think of was the damn material and how to make it right. It became somewhat of an obsession, his shoe making days blurred with images of shoddily dyed material, his midnights spent browsing paints and colourings online.

“Yo, R,” Feuilly said one afternoon. “Just got an order from the Paris Opera house…”

“Big news,” Grantaire said, shaping a row of shoes, “Big spenders…”

“Yeah,” Feuilly stretched out a skein of material, “Look at this!”

Grantaire looked up and upon closer inspection dropped his own work. “Is that _white_ satin?”

“Not only is it white… it’s _one hundred percent silk_.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows and whistled a long note. “Damn! Look at that shine!”

“It’s almost too pretty to cut.”

“Ugh. I’m so jealous. I wish I still had bigshot clients. My two biggest names got fired.”

“Can’t you ask Mr. Wow to buy you fancy silk?”

Grantaire considered it. “I don’t want to push my luck. It’s too expensive.”

“Isn’t he basically your ballet shoe sugar daddy?”

Grantaire screwed his face up. “Shut up. Oh my God!”

“No! Serious question!” Feuilly cackled. “He seems rich.”

“He just got fired!”

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t rich.”

The edge of Grantaire’s lip curled. “Yeah. He _does_ seem rich. But that doesn’t mean he’ll be able to buy me loads of pure silk…”

“No harm in asking, is there?” Feuilly mused. “D’you want my scraps to test on?”

Grantaire, whose reputation throughout high-school had been somewhat cool and mysterious, was now the guy who scrounged for material scraps for dye tests. He gave a huff of amusement, at the ways the world worked. “Yeah, I really do.”

~*~

“You’re legitimately obsessed, darling,” Éponine said when she got home, grimacing at Grantaire surrounded by dozens of scraps and colours. “You _never_ bring work home…”

“This is something a bit different…”

Éponine rolled her eyes. “Hm. I wonder _why…_ ” She chucked her bag onto the sofa and slumped down, pressing at her muscles. “Just a guess… but perhaps it could be linked to a particularly gorgeous dancer…”

Grantaire snorted. “It has _nothing_ to do with _you_ , Ép,” he joked, shooting her a wink.

“Gosh. You charming boy.” Éponine scrolled through her phone. “Getting anywhere?”

Grantaire looked over the strips. “Yeah. But only with the most expensive material possible.”

“Boujie…” she ran her fingers through her tight bun, fluffing it out into its wild tangle, “Can you not just paint them with acrylics, or something?”

Grantaire stared at her. The world flashed behind his eyelids. He collapsed onto the floor and gave a colossal moan. “If that works I literally am going to die.”

Éponine merely rolled her eyes once more. “Thank me later, then. Rude…”

Grantaire rushed to his room and grabbed his stash of paints, struggling through to the main room with silks overflowing from his arms. He mixed and blotted, creating a perfectly matching skin tone and painting it over a selection of satins.

“Right. We’ll see in the morning if this has worked.” He looked grimly at the small scraps of material. “I bloody hope it has. I haven’t even started on making the actual shoes yet!”

~*~

Grantaire woke early, padding out into the living room in his socks. He flicked the kettle on for his morning coffee, and meandered towards his dyeing station, expecting to see the scraps still wet and refusing to dry, or streaky and unabsorbed. Scraggly slivers of silk, painted in dark, oak brown, dry and perfect, lay on the newspaper.

Grantaire clenched his fists, and had to restrain from cheering out loud, and instead did a silent dance lap around the room - so he would not wake Éponine.

He scribbled a remark on a post-it note, and stuck it to her door. ‘ _Éponine. I OWE YOU. BIG. STYLE. Seriously. Omg. You’ve saved my life with the shoes. I LOVE YOU smh! See ya!’_

He left her a sandwich on the side for when she woke, and rushed to work, a grin on his face.

While on the train he sent a somewhat premature text to Enjolras.

‘ _Shoes are sorted,’_ it read, although the shoes were _not entirely_ sorted. ‘ _I know the perfect solution. No more pancaking. Next week, get the troupe together and come to my place. Need to match skin tones perfectly and work on fittings etc. Looking forward to it.’_

A few minutes later his phone beeped.

_‘Cool. Next week it is. Monday evening? -E.’_

He typed back as he walked, almost colliding with a lamppost and a handful of stray tourists. ‘ _Monday. It’s a date.’_

He flew up the stairs to the workshop, mind not focused, as it tended to be, on how annoying the dozens of stairs were, but on how ardently he hoped Enjolras would like the shoes. Grantaire, ever the under-achiever and cynic, felt all at once what it meant to work tirelessly to impress someone. And why? It was just down to Enjolras’ vigour and passion, his vision for the future and his persuasive tongue, was it not?

Grantaire forced any other reason (of which there were plenty: his eyes, his sunbeam smile, the earnestness which fell too easily from his lips, his _damn_ perfect legs - to name a few) far from thought, and tried to turn his focus onto the mindless work of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gahhhh forgive me, forgive me, I didn't update for a month! that's like the longest I HAVE EVER gone without updating. what can I say, #justgirlypandemicthings! anyway I'll post the next chapter soon and OH bOY is there enough yearning to make up for the delay! 
> 
> hope you liked this chapter, tho it's mostly ep/r and feuilly/r friendship, there's still some PINING to get you through! 
> 
> as always thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think! comments feed my soul! teehee!


	13. En Pointe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like two ballet shoe ribbons, Enjolras and Grantaire begin to weave closer. Les Amis meet to paint their new revolutionary shoes, and God, Enjolras is so close and warm that Grantaire doesn't know what to do.

Grantaire swore he had never looked forward to a Monday in his life, but this particular Monday could not come soon enough.

He spent his day at work stitching elastics and baking shoes, and stamping his initial into the soles, but during his breaks, he worked even harder, perfecting a whole fleet of pointe shoes to take home. He kept his notes up to date with costs of materials and amounts.

By the time five PM rolled around, he struggled out of the workshop with about twelve pairs of shoes, clutching an oversized bag in his arms.

He shouted his goodbyes to his colleagues and blustered into the rain, feeling windswept, his nerves on edge.

Once at his apartment, he thundered up the stairs to prepare the space before anyone arrived. He arranged his paints, displayed the shoes around the edge of the walls, covered the floor with newspapers and pushed the sofas to the sides of the room.

As he was just about to change from his rain-soaked shirt, and attempt to tame the frizzy tangle of dark hair, there was a knock at the door. Grantaire caught a glimpse of himself in the oven door, wet and bedraggled and rather pathetic looking, knowing it was all too late to do anything about it.

He flung open the door, and suddenly the sound of warm chatter poured over him, soothing any worries about sodden shirts and messy hair.

“It’s so nice to see you all,” he said, “Welcome to my home… sorry there isn’t much space…”

“Ah, so chic!” Cosette bounded in first, “So cosy!” She perched on the edge of the sofa, crossing her legs so she was all wrapped up like a Christmas gift. Joly and Musichetta both kissed Grantaire’s cheeks, Musichetta’s hand on the small of Joly’s back. Jehan drifted in and sat on the floor, stretching out their muscles, eyes sleepy. Although they were not required at a meeting about ballet shoes, both Combeferre and Courfeyrac piled in, stopping mid-bicker to greet Grantaire, and then resuming - Grantaire overheard something vaguely absurdist about philosophy, and half-wanted to join the debate. Enjolras slipped in last, shutting the door behind himself.

“I hope we’re not too late,” he said, shaking a hand through his hair - which somehow, although speckled with rain, seemed to glitter, rather than drape against his forehead in a soaked mess. The oven clock had not even reached two minutes past six. “We had a bit of a challenge finding you.”

“You aren’t late at all,” Grantaire said. “Anybody want anything to drink?”

The room hummed disappointedly. “We’re rehearsing tomorrow morning,” Joly explained. “We can’t, really.”

“Speak for yourselves,” Courfeyrac argued, “ _I’m_ not rehearsing tomorrow.”

“It’s only wine,” Grantaire offered.

“Oh, well in that case!” Musichetta laughed, “I’ll have a little!”

Relieved, Grantaire retrieved his freshly polished glasses and left the wine bottle on the table.

“Okay. I just wanted to have a quick consultation with all of you to test some prototype shoes, and match some skintones to the colour of the material…” A soft sigh fell from the chasm of his chest. “I’m not really sure how it is going to work.”

“R,” Jehan said, leaning into the depths of the sofa, “No need for the formality, wondrous boy. We’ll chill and we’ll drink and we’ll talk to you about shoes. No need to stress.” Grantaire gave Jehan a grateful smile. “Come on, sunshine. Show me my shoes first.”

~*~

Jehan manoeuvred their feet into the test shoes, fiddling with the toe pads and deftly tying the ribbons.

“They’re pretty,” they said, approvingly, flexing their toes so the shoes caught in the light.

“Stand up,” Grantaire said, keeping a hand still on Jehan’s feet.

Jehan stood and carried out a few rudimentary steps, sinking into a plié.

“And up?” Grantaire suggested.

“I’ve never done pointe before,” Jehan said, wobbling slightly.

Grantaire went to the table and pulled out a chair, offering it to Jehan as a makeshift barre. “Just up on your toes…” Grantaire said, watching the material pouch slightly around Jehan’s arches. “Can you feel your toes touching the floor?”

“A little bit,” Jehan’s legs wavered.

“Does it hurt anywhere?”

“A little…” Jehan frowned, “Just in the tips of the toes, but that’s normal, right?”

“No,” Grantaire felt the edges of the shoe. “It’s too narrow.”

The evening lulled on through fittings and trials of the shoes, and eventually Jehan found Grantaire’s record player, and slipped out a vinyl.

“Plantasia!” they cooed, “I knew you were a man of taste!”

With the soothing crackle of laid-back electronic music dousing the room, suddenly everything felt more comfortable - almost as if Grantaire was beginning to become one of Les Amis.

As the night wore on, Éponine arrived back. The door swung open as Grantaire was fitting Joly’s shoe, and tightening the ribbons.

“Ah!” she said, gazing upon the troupe of dancers, a bemused smile on her face. “We have company! How delightful!”

Grantaire had mentioned it to her, but she loved making a show.

“I’m Éponine. R’s roommate.”

“Stay and hang out, if you want to,” Grantaire said, waving her to the couch. She dumped her bags at the door and promptly squeezed between Musichetta and Cosette, falling into conversation easily and boldly.

Grantaire made a few notes and clapped his hands together.

“Okay, great!” he said, over the growing din, “I’ll sort out any issues with sizing and fit over the next few days.”

Everyone watched him intently. A strange pressure crawled over his skin.

“I talked with Enjolras the other day, and he showed me the importance of matching your shoes to your skin tone. In all honesty, I don’t know all too much about ballet. It was the first I had ever heard of it… but it… it pissed me off. I felt mad that you guys had to do so much more than your other dancing colleagues. That shoemakers like me don’t know about it. That _we_ don’t create them diversely…” he shrugged. “So I found a solution. One second.”

He darted to his room and emerged with a handful of old painting shirts. “We’re going to paint them.”

He handed out the shirts to everyone. They were met with laughs and grins, as the dancers slipped the old, ratty material over rehearsal clothes.

“Yes!” Éponine cheered when Grantaire pulled his hair off his face and tied it up. “Artiste Grantaire is here, baby!” She leant to whisper loudly to Cosette. “I love him!”

Courfeyrac pouted, lips pink from wine. “I want to paint too! I feel marginalised as a non ballet dancer.” He rolled the stem of his glass through his fingers. “And I’m sure Combeferre and Éponine do as well.”

“Extremely marginalised,” Éponine grinned cattily.

Combeferre shrugged. “It’s not very anarchist of you to not give us _all_ shoes to paint.”

Grantaire stared at him dumbly before Combeferre grinned and added, “Only joking.”

“Some people can paint one shoe each, if they want to,” Grantaire offered, giving Courfeyrac a narrow-eyed smirk. “Communist enough for you?”

“Delightfully so!”

~*~

The group began to mix paints and search for the closest match to their skin tones, testing out swatches on their arms, giggling furiously with the mixture of red wine and infectious joy.

Enjolras sat slightly to the side, head bent over the paints - a paintbrush clenched between his teeth, and the ribbons of his shoes somehow outstretched between the creases of his knees.

“Do you need a hand?” Grantaire asked, slipping down to sit beside him.

Enjolras mumbled around the paintbrush, before dropping his shoes and rolling his eyes. “Perhaps. I’m just trying to test the colour of the ribbons against the light so I get the tone exactly right.”

“Test it on your skin,” offered Grantaire, “The paint won’t harm you in small quantities, and it will make your life a bit easier…”

Enjolras nodded and untangled his hands from the shoe ribbons, grabbing the bowl of mixed paint and gently sweeping a stroke over his wrist. “Like this?”

Grantaire reached out, tentative, fingers hovering just by Enjolras’ hand. “May I?” he asked. Enjolras nodded. Grantaire touched their skin together, the nerves in his fingers sparking alive. With a gentle twist he turned Enjolras’ hand over, so his palm was bared to the air. “Try here…” He took the paintbrush and dabbed a small layer of paint onto the middle of Enjolras’ skin. He looked down, examining the hand as if he were a palm-reader. “It’s a little too light.”

“You’re right,” Enjolras closed his hand slowly, his thumb drifting over Grantaire’s knuckles, feather-light, Grantaire’s fingers had never felt so sensitive.

Enjolras shifted closer, leaning over Grantaire’s lap to grab a tube of acrylic paint. Grantaire looked down, Enjolras’ face so close he could feel the warmth, aware their faces had never been in such close proximity.

Enjolras added a drop of paint to his palette, prising the brush from Grantaire’s fingertips and mixing. His eyes focused on the shade, squinting slightly in the lowlights. A ringlet of hair drooped over his gaze, and he looked like a Renaissance painting, all golden and shining like the promise of a brighter tomorrow. Grantaire felt a peculiar sensation in his chest, as though someone was grasping at his sinews and tugging hard. Enjolras’ breath sent the spiral of hair bouncing off his forehead, but it scattered down back over his eyes. With a thoughtless gesture, he pushed his hand across his face, pulling his hair out of the way, but smearing a streak of paint above his eyebrow.

“Oh,” Grantaire exhaled, “You…”

Enjolras looked up, down at his hand and began scrubbing at his skin with the back of his hand.

“No,” Grantaire stilled Enjolras’ hand, “Here…” Slowly, gently, he lifted his long sleeve to Enjolras’ face and daubed the still-wet smudge of paint away.

Enjolras gazed up through Grantaire’s fingers, lips parted in blossom-pink wonder.

Grantaire had never wanted to kiss someone more in his entire life.

With a hint of daring, he traced his hand down, until the husk of his palm cupped the curve of Enjolras’ chin. “Lovely,” he said with a slow-smile - knowing it was the sort of smile reserved for late, moonlit nights, so late that they transformed into mornings.

Enjolras breathed for a moment, their skin still connected, the warmth of one another seeping between them. After a long, torturous minute, he dipped his chin and broke the connection. “Thank you,” he said, but his voice was oddly gravelled, deeper than Grantaire had heard it before.

It was as though the rest of the room had fallen away, and Enjolras and Grantaire were alone at the edge of the earth. Enjolras’ breath breezed over Grantaire’s cheek, and it took all of Grantaire’s strength not to inch closer.

_Oh my God,_ he thought. _Who am I kidding?_ He lurched back and fumbled for a paintbrush on the floor. He looked up to see a peculiar expression on Enjolras’ face. He thought it foolish when the other shoemakers fell into daydreams about the prima ballerinas that visited with their long legs and slender waists and sharp eyes, so why on Earth was he acting in the same way? Enjolras would want _nothing_ to do with a shoemaker. Grantaire could not really afford to lose the brand new handful of clients in Les Amis, either, so he pulled himself together.

“Looks good,” he said, a shade brusquely. “Nice work. Hey! Éponine, I hope you’re not being a distraction!” He stood and nudged at Éponine’s shoulder. “I knew it was a bad idea to let you and Courfeyrac get your hands on these paints.” Éponine and Courfeyrac looked up, innocently, stilling their animated conversation with Jehan.

“Distraction?” Courfeyrac said, pressing a hand to his chest. “You wound me, R. It seems you know a great deal more about distraction than we do…” he glanced pointedly to Enjolras, who was hunched back over his shoes, painting. “If you know what I mean.”

“ _I_ know what you mean,” Éponine said, grinning wolfishly. “R can be awfully distracting if he puts his mind to it.”

“Lovely boys like R have a way of being a distraction, without really knowing it,” Jehan offered.

Grantaire squinted. “I need a drink,” he said.

~*~

The night drew on, until the shoes were all painted, and the dancers and crew were lounging, too close, on the sofas - soft and sleepy with wine and exhaustion.

“We ought to go,” Joly murmured, shifting in his over-large painting shirt. “We shouldn’t impose on R…”

“It’s not imposing,” Grantaire waved a hand, a little too drunk, once again. “Stay as long as you like!”

Cosette unbuttoned her overshirt and folded it neatly before laying it on the coffee table. “Joly is right. We’re all busy tomorrow, aren’t we?”

Jehan gave a cat-like stretch and peered up through dark brown eyes at Enjolras. “What time are we rehearsing tomorrow?”

Enjolras too took off his painting shirt. “Well, I’m getting in early to practice, but… you don’t need to be there until… nine?”

A collective groan passed through the room.

“Fine,” Enjolras smiled, “Ten.”

Combeferre patted Grantaire on the shoulder. “Cheers, R. It’s been a lovely experience. I’m looking forward to seeing the final shoes…” he smiled, midnight dark eyes shining like whiskey. He glanced down at a rather expensive looking watch and cursed mildly. “Drat!” he exclaimed, “We need to run if we’re going to catch the metro. The last one is in five minutes!”

A sudden flurry of painting clothes and coats passed through the space, and frantic goodbyes and kisses on the cheeks followed. In the midst of the chaos, Grantaire watched dozily. As quick as the commotion had begun, it ended, and Éponine and Grantaire were left slumped on their sofa, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GASP! IT'S AN ALMOST KISS! I repeat AN ALMOST KISS! This slow burning candle is almost BURNT OUT teeeheee! uGH I love tension and closeness and misunderstandings and aLMOST KISSES. SORRY! So in LOVE! 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! What did I say? I promised I would update super quickly!! As always let me know what you think! A real life ship is songbird-musing/comments - I'm pining for those sweet sweet comments all day long (lol!) Much love!!!


	14. Warm Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras asks Grantaire to dance a Pas de Deux with him.

Grantaire awoke with sun streaming through the open blinds. He groaned and furrowed into the cushion, kicking a leg and hearing a muffled groan.

“We are _messy_ ,” he croaked. “Hot messes.”

“Shut up,” Éponine complained, “My head is killing me.”

“It’s a good thing we’re still in our twenties,” Grantaire murmured, peeling his face from the sofa, “In our thirties, this will be a Certified Life Problem.”

“Babe,” Éponine furiously tried to return to sleep, “ _You’re_ a Certified Life Problem right now. Shut up.”

Grantaire shuffled to the kitchen to check the time. His soul screamed as he noted it was hardly seven AM. He looked at the clock and grimly began to make an instant coffee. He was one of those people who could never get back to sleep after waking up.

After nursing the ink black coffee for as long as possible, he returned to the living room and began to clear away the scattered newspaper sheets covered in paint, brushes and wine glasses. With the room half presentable, he noticed a burst of red material slumped on the arm of the sofa. Careful not to disturb Éponine, he ran a finger across the thick woollen material, shaking it out and admiring the craftsmanship. The collar was long and sharp, the buttons were polished gold, and the coat was most certainly Enjolras’. He grimaced. A shrill ring sounded and Grantaire jumped, almost dropping the coat.

“Oh my God!” Éponine flung a pillow at Grantaire’s head. “Why do you exist?”

“Shush,” Grantaire chided, “Go to sleep.” He whisked the coat into his room and grabbed the phone from the pocket. It was cheap and old, like it could barely connect to the internet. He flipped it open and saw Combeferre’s name.

“Enjolras! You left your coffee. Do you want me to bring you a fresh one in a bit?”

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Um…” he said. “Hey Combeferre.”

“R?” Combeferre suddenly asked, a tension entering his voice. “Are you… _with_ Enjolras? Um… _what?_ ”

“Um. No. He left his coat at mine last night.”

“Oh,” Combeferre said. “He can be a little thoughtless with his things, sometimes.” He sighed. “I’ll come and pick it up before rehearsal.”

“No, it’s okay. Where is he? I can drop it off. I’ve got to head to work, anyway.”

“Are you sure? I can get it from you, no problem.”

“Seriously,” Grantaire said, shifting through his rails of clothing to pick something remotely uncreased. “I’ll take it. Is he at the studios?”

Combeferre paused. “If you don’t mind… yeah, he’s rehearsing.”

“Yeah, not at all. Cheers, Combeferre. See you later.”

“Bye,” Combeferre said, and the line went dead.

Grantaire continued to sort through his wardrobe and hopped into the shower, towel-drying his hair and rushing out into the street. He tucked the coat into his arms - it was far nicer than anything Grantaire owned - everything about it felt expensive.

The journey on the metro drew him closer to the centre of Paris - closer to his workshops and to Enjolras’ studio. He bustled through the crowds, wondering if waking before nine AM twice in such close proximity meant that he was officially an adult.

He made his way up to the rehearsal room and knocked. Inside, the low hum of classical music poured through the door. After a moment, Enjolras’ voice called out. “Come in!”

Grantaire cracked open the door and was struck silent at the sight of Enjolras somehow defying laws of physics and floating through the air in a graceful leap. His toes landed perfectly en pointe, but as he glanced in the floor length mirrors, catching sight of Grantaire, his knees buckled and he had to break his position. He spun to look at Grantaire, his face held strangely - eyes confused, lips slanted. “Oh. Grantaire?” he said.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Grantaire said quickly. “You probably were looking forward to not having to see me for a few days,” he joked. Enjolras said nothing, but his lips pursed tighter.

“What…?” he paused, “No. What are you doing here?”

Grantaire held out his arm, displaying the coat like a museum piece. “You left it at mine. Your phone as well.”

“Oh,” Enjolras frowned. “Thank you.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I didn’t want to interrupt you in the middle of-”

“No, it’s fine. Honestly. Thank you.”

“Are you alright? Did you land funny? I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”

Enjolras gave a huffed laugh, shaking out his shoulders, face softening. “No. Honestly, Grantaire. Sorry, you just took me by surprise.”

A heavy pause filled the room. Grantaire wondered if it would be awkward to bring up the night before, the close proximity of their faces.

“How are the shoes?” he settled on, instead.

Enjolras looked down at his feet, his movement a shade slow and morning-fuzzed. He flexed his toes. “Perfect.”

“They look great,” Grantaire smiled. “The perfect colour.” He hooked Enjolras’ coat over the edge of one of the barres. His hands no longer obscured by the material displayed two reusable coffee cups. “I got you a coffee. Combeferre said you had forgotten yours.”

Enjolras’ chest flickered with a trapped breath. “How… How kind of you…”

Grantaire handed the warm mug over, taking a sip from his own. “No problem,” he shrugged a shoulder. “Well… I’ll be off, if you’re busy…”

Enjolras blinked. “No,” he said, and then looked surprised at his own response. “Stay, if you like.”

Grantaire tried not to let his surprise splash across his features. “If you require a shoemaker, I would be happy to stay,” he said wryly, a glint of humour in his eyes.

“You’re not just a shoemaker,” Enjolras said, loping over to a pair of chairs and stretching out his calves as he sat. “You’re a friend.”

Grantaire sat, pretending to be focused on his coffee. His cheeks were embarrassingly pink. “Sorry about last night.”

“Hm?”

“I can get a bit… _touchy-feely_ when I’m wine-drunk.”

Enjolras laughed and waved a hand. “I don’t know what you mean. You were just helping me paint my shoes.”

If Enjolras was going to gloss over it, then Grantaire was perfectly happy to do the same.

As they sipped their coffees, both painted dawn gold through the windows, Grantaire noticed Enjolras palming at his shin, a troubled rivulet of a frown between his eyebrows.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Enjolras started, his eyes catching Grantaire’s, all liquefied agate - the sort of blue that could be found through sun-drenched stained glass windows, and tucked away gemstones. “I suppose I’m just a little… frustrated.” Grantaire watched in silence as Enjolras grappled with the words to say. “I woke up this morning, and my muscles were aching, and I suppose… I haven’t had chance to process the… _enormity_ of what Cosette and I did… Leaving Paris’ most renowned ballet company…” He continued to massage his leg muscle, his shoulders slumping in his chair. “I obviously don’t regret it,” his eyes flickered shut and it was the most tired that Grantaire had ever seen him. “I’m just…”

“Overwhelmed?”

Enjolras gave a quiet laugh. “Something like that.” He sighed, and looked at Grantaire through winced eyes. “Sorry, I don’t want to burden you.”

“It isn’t a burden.” Grantaire leant over to squeeze Enjolras’ shoulder. “Like you said… You’re a friend. I want to know the Enjolras beneath the façade.”

“The façade?”

Grantaire waved his hands in the vague approximation of Enjolras. “The dancer thing.”

“I _am_ a dancer,” Enjolras said curiously.

“You know what I mean. The Mr. Wow thing.”

“ _Mr. Wow?”_ Enjolras’ lips wobbled before breaking into a hicuuping sort of laugh. “What on _Earth_ is _Mr. Wow?”_

Grantaire felt a flush creep across his cheeks. “My friend, Feuilly… you met him at the workshop. That’s his… nickname for you.”

Enjolras continued to laugh - the sound rolling wider and richer, until it rippled earthquakes through his entire body.

“You _can_ be a little, like… _wow…_ intimidating, y’know?”

“Intimidating?” Enjolras said, immediately sobering, an intensity pooling in his eyes. Grantaire’s grin slid off his face, until Enjolras’ lips curled into a smirk. “ _Only joking_. I know.” He shrugged. “I don’t _try_ to be… I think it’s in my genes.” He looked pensively into the floor length mirrors, his gaze soft. “I think… I think I just get overly focused on my work… and when my mind is like that… I can’t think of much else. I _know_ I can be intense. I know it probably isn’t healthy…”

“Oh, Enjolras,” Grantaire said softly. “We’re all full of self-destructive tendencies, aren’t we? It’s part of being human.”

Enjolras looked at him for a long, long time - his eyes studying Grantaire as though he were a painting in a gallery. After a slow, heady silence, his lips finally curved into the beginnings of a word. “And what of self-preservation? Is that not _more_ human?”

“Depends who you ask,” Grantaire retorted. “Is it destructive or preservative of you to be so obsessed with dancing? The answer is not so clear.”

Enjolras considered it. “It preserves my career, but destroys my social life… my family, my dating life.”

Grantaire felt Enjolras nudge a centimetre closer, he could hardly believe that Enjolras was confiding in him.

“But what about Les Amis? Isn’t that the perfect mix of friends, family and lovers?”

Enjolras’ mouth curled in a grimace. “Friends and family, perhaps,” he smiled. “Dancers make terrible lovers.”

Grantaire laughed aloud. “Why’s that, then?”

“Because they never stop rehearsing!”

Grantaire pulled a face, a grin breaking through. “Ah. Surely that isn’t a dealbreaker…”

“Depends who you ask…” Enjolras said coyly, the words that Grantaire had spoken echoed on his lips like a kiss. “What would your answer be?”

“That sort of thing wouldn’t bother me at all.” He smiled a midnight smile. His voice dropped, his words silken and sugar-drenched. “Would that make _you_ a terrible lover, Enjolras?”

Enjolras leaned so close that Grantaire could smell peppermint and soap, a vague aroma of damp hair and sunshine. If Grantaire were to nudge an inch closer, they would be forehead-to-forehead, cheek-to-cheek, skin on skin and lips on lips. Grantaire half wanted to let his eyes flutter shut in anticipation, half wanted to revel in Enjolras’ glow. His pulse echoed in the chambers of his head, his every nerve alive. Each breath that passed across his skin felt like an electric shock of midnight skies, and billions of stars: the phenomena of feeling so small amongst the world, but feeling too big for your skin. “You’d have to find out, wouldn’t you?” Enjolras said in a whisper.

_Jesus Christ,_ thought Grantaire, almost blacking out. “I suppose I will,” he murmured back. He wondered who would break first, who would surge forwards an inch. His hands itched to take Enjolras’, longed to fist in his hair, and curl around the planes of his back. Enjolras grinned - amusement poured over his cheeks. Grantaire felt his resolve cracking and tilted his chin, leaning in tortuously further. Before they met, as one, Enjolras sprung to his feet, mischief playing in his eyes.

Grantaire blinked up at him, his heart leaping erratically.

“Have you ever danced a Pas de Deux, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, lips still parted in a smile, but now so far away.

Grantaire shook his head numbly. “Can’t say I have…” he said, lurching from the almost-kiss to the present.

Enjolras extended a hand, long, poised and elegant. His face lit up further, and Grantaire thought that _no, no-one could be a terrible lover with a smile like that._

Though he felt unworthy of dancing at such an esteemed dancer’s side, though he felt unworthy of the ethereal nature of Enjolras himself, he knew he was not unworthy of such a minuscule, insignificant act of joining two hands. It would begin with two hands as one, and Grantaire trusted Enjolras - would follow him to wherever he may lead.

He reached out his fingers and connected their palms, Enjolras’ skin surprisingly cool beneath his own.

Enjolras looked like an angel, light pouring around him like molten gold, and Grantaire could hardly believe they were touching, palm in palm like ancient lovers. He felt a strange sort of _rightness_ like this, as though it was prewritten that they would stand together in such a way.

“Dance with me, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, and _God,_ how could a mortal man like Grantaire refuse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA is it just ME or is that studio getting STEAMY?!?! lolll omg I am SO obsessed with t h e metaphor of hand holding in exr fics, like tbh to me a hand holding is almost more significant than a KISS, but........ you will not have to wait long.... ;))) keep your eyes peeled for the next chapter!! (hint hint) (also this chapter title is a hint... what... are they.... warming up... f o r??)
> 
> anyway I LOVE a bit of emotional vulnerability, so have it all! 
> 
> aaaaaas always, I really hope you liked this chapter!! please let me know what you think! major shout out to anyone who comments I LOVE YOU and you are my life force!!! <333


	15. Adagio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so, they dance.

As soon as Grantaire stepped forwards in acceptance, Enjolras smiled softly. “We’ll have to work on that form…” he said, teasing. With his free hand, he pushed Grantaire’s shoulder back, pulled his arm into shape, and tilted his chin back. “Feet in first position…”

“I don’t know what first position is,” Grantaire laughed, feeling awkward with his arm extended in an uncomfortable, soft curve.

Enjolras paused for a moment and drew away. “Alright. Let’s do this properly.” He padded to his tote bag and retrieved a pair of white leather slippers. He flung them towards Grantaire, who scrambled to catch them. “Try those on for size. They should be alright.” He continued to scour through his bag.

Grantaire looked at the dance shoes sceptically. “They aren’t as nice as the ones I make…” he joked.

“Course they aren’t…” Enjolras laughed, grabbing his phone, triumphantly. As he scrolled, head down, Grantaire slipped off his boots and wriggled his feet into the slippers - somewhat loose and unfamiliar. Enjolras put on a slow, classical piece of music that sounded tinnily through his phone speakers.

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to dance in jeans,” Grantaire said.

“If you don’t know what first position is, I’m not sure you’ll be able to dance at all. Stop complaining.” Enjolras grinned radiantly. “Everyone knows the dancers in pointe do all the work, anyway.” He took his place, chest-to-chest with Grantaire. His pointe shoes toed Grantaire’s feet open, so they formed a ‘V’ shape. “First position,” he said softly. “You’re a quick learner.”

Grantaire’s mind short circuited when Enjolras lifted his palms to Grantaire’s waist.

“That’s my most important spot, okay?” Enjolras said, indicating for Grantaire to cup his waist with his large hands. “Female b-” he paused and a momentary frown passed over his face. “Sorry, old habit. Pointe dancers are often supported at their waist… So make sure you’ve got hold of me…”

Grantaire could feel Enjolras’ tight stomach, the jut of his hipbones, and knew that Enjolras would not find the same leanness across his own torso. “I’ve got hold of you,” he said.

“Perfect,” Enjolras said, so close that Grantaire could see each thread of his eyelashes, each freckle and mole across his cheeks. “Okay so follow…” He stepped away, as far as Grantaire’s arms could reach. “Hey, hey,” he loosened Grantaire’s grip an inch, “Not so tight… I need to be able to breathe…” he smiled. “Support _gently…_ ”

He began to spin, and Grantaire tried to keep his palms slackly circled around Enjolras’ waist. As the dancer turned, his leg pointed out into the air, sharply tucking back to his side with each rotation. The control he had over his every muscle was a phenomenon, and Grantaire could hardly handle the simple task of steering Enjolras’ waist. “Beautiful,” Enjolras said, “Now here…”

He turned so his back was nestled against Grantaire’s chest. “One arm here,” he lifted Grantaire’s left arm to support his own, “The other one _here…_ ” he raised Grantaire’s right arm to a slightly lower height. Enjolras leaned forwards, some of his weight resting on Grantaire’s left bicep. He effortlessly lifted his right leg, balancing the block of his pointe shoe on Grantaire’s right hand. Grantaire hardly dared to breathe, scared he would shatter the moment.

Enjolras leaned his head back. Because he was tilted forwards, for once they were almost at eye level, Enjolras profile tickling Grantaire’s neck as he breathed. “Pretty, huh?”

“Super pretty,” Grantaire breathed in agreement, stealing a glance of the pair of them in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. It was like gazing upon a distant statue in a museum - wrought with such splendour and grace, it hardly looked real.

“You’re a natural.”

Grantaire laughed, slightly disturbing the balance. “I don’t know about that…”

“Do you want to try a lift?”

Grantaire winced.

“It’s really easy,” Enjolras assured, “I’m not as heavy as I look.” He turned and began fixing Grantaire’s position, putting one leg over a bent knee, and straightening the other. He instructed Grantaire to lean over his stretched leg, reaching diagonally for the floor. He hooked Grantaire’s other arm into a loop, leaving enough space for a torso. “That’s where I’ll be…” he explained. “Do you trust me?”

Grantaire felt a shiver go through him. “Yeah, of course.”

Enjolras nodded and tucked his waist into the crook of Grantaire’s elbow. “Like I said… It’s really easy. Just stay like this.”

Grantaire tried to remain still with all of his might, as though his life depended on it. Enjolras gave a breathy countdown and all at once engaged his stomach muscles, tilting down until his head was towards the floor, making a parallel line with Grantaire’s extended leg. Enjolras’ own legs gracefully kicked up until they were hovering in mid-air. Grantaire could feel them next to his ear, but dared not look around unless he somehow accidentally dropped him.

Enjolras then wrapped one of his quads around Grantaire’s back. A cursed memory of discussing Enjolras’ legs with Éponine and Montparnasse traitorously crept into the forefront of Grantaire’s mind.

“Let go?”

“What?” Grantaire asked, still somewhat out of sorts that he had Enjolras’ leg wrapped around him like a vine.

“Let go,” Enjolras commanded, the tiniest tinge of strain in his voice.

“Obviously not,” Grantaire said, “You’ll fall.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and pushed Grantaire’s hand away. Instead of crashing to the ground, somehow the strength of his leg, curling around Grantaire’s back, was holding him in mid-air.

“What the hell?” Grantaire breathed. “How are you doing that?”

Enjolras gave a wink. “Told you I would be doing all the work.”

“How are you human?” Grantaire said, choking back a laugh.

“The verdict is still out,” Enjolras grinned back. “Hands,” he said, and Grantaire obediently placed his hands back on Enjolras’ waist.

Enjolras swooped back up into an arabesque position, one leg held at a right angle behind him. His foot on the ground remained en pointe, until he lowered his legs and came to stand, feet flat on the floor, next to Grantaire.

Grantaire moved to unhook his palms from Enjolras’ waist, but Enjolras stopped him, placing his hand atop Grantaire’s.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his words brushing a feather-light breeze across the bridge of Grantaire’s nose. “You would make a wonderful dance partner.”

Grantaire huffed with a grin. “Are you implying I would make a terrible lover, too?” He felt Enjolras’ stomach tense and ripple as he laughed.

“I don’t think you would know how…” Enjolras breathed.

“To be a lover?”

“To be terrible.”

At those hushed, whispered words, Grantaire felt a thrill greater than any jolt of adrenaline, a headier rush than any drug. They both knew what was about to transpire, but basking in the moment was just as lovely as what was to come. Grantaire’s breaths echoed hollowly, and stood so close to Enjolras, he could feel both of their chests rising and falling in anticipation.

“Is that a challenge?” Grantaire asked cheekily, glancing up into the full glare of Enjolras’ radiance.

“Perhaps,” said Enjolras lightly, his hand lifted, his knuckles grazing Grantaire’s chin up an inch, his skin scalding hot on Grantaire’s skin. Grantaire’s breath caught in his throat, his lips falling open a sliver. “But as I have told you before… my judgement is not often wrong.”

His thumb drifted over the swell of Grantaire’s lips, tracing the arc of his cheek, his palm coming to cup the line of Grantaire’s jaw. Grantaire blinked up through his eyelashes, ready to shatter the moment with just a few words. “Surely you must need some proof for that judgement?”

“Hm,” he said, shockingly close. “I suppose it simply would not be right to make assumptions with no proof.”

“Not right at all,” Grantaire agreed.

“Then…” he smiled, achingly slowly, “Perhaps I _must_ find out…”

Instead of quipping back, Grantaire had finally reached the end of his patience. He nudged forwards, feeling the warm flush of Enjolras’ lips against his own. He tasted of bitter coffee and burnt sugar - the way an autumn afternoon should taste. Grantaire took one hand from the concave of Enjolras’ hipbone, and brought it up to the soft crook of Enjolras’ neck. His fingers tangled in the mane of tight curls and brushed against silken skin. Long weeks of simmering desire, a desire that Grantaire had hardly let himself indulge in, spilled out between them like ink, pooling around the pair in a story yet to be written. Enjolras’ grip pulled loosely at the front of Grantaire’s shirt, instinctive, drawing them closer still. Grantaire allowed himself to bask in the sunlight warm feeling of being so close to Enjolras, to their hands, unfamiliar with one another’s skin, of their breaths mingling together. It was a dance of its own, Enjolras leading Grantaire’s breath, Grantaire following, arching under Enjolras’ touch.

After moments of sweet togetherness, Enjolras’ lips clumsily wavered into a smile, and he drew back an inch, his forehead coming to rest on Grantaire’s. It was soft and intimate, and _God,_ it made every nerve in Grantaire’s chest ache with longing.

“Well?” Grantaire asked, trying not to let his breath hitch in an embarrassing display of yearning. 

Enjolras’ laugh was feathery. “My good judgement is still intact.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Grantaire said, “I would have hated to tarnish your reputation.”

Enjolras lightly cuffed him on the shoulder, giving a laugh and stepping away. He flexed his feet and did a few experimental steps, gliding through the moves almost as though they were subconscious. “Do you have a witty comeback for everything I say, Grantaire?”

“It would be a shame not to,” Grantaire said, his hands feeling heavy by his sides. He wanted to ask _why,_ and _what does this mean,_ and _what are we_ , as though he were a highschool boy once again, but bit his lip to stay silent. “Well…” he said after a pause, “I’m around if you ever need a dance partner again.”

Enjolras continued to dance, and Grantaire could not draw his eyes away. “I think I would like that a lot,” he said after a moment.

Grantaire’s face broke into a smile. “I look forward to it.”

At that moment, with the heaviness of the world pulsing between them, the door clicked open and snapped the thick tension into pieces. Enjolras’ shoulders softened and he turned to smile.

Combeferre bustled into the room, scarf bundled tight against his neck, a folder full of sheet music pressed to his chest, and a tray full of coffees perched in his hands. “Morning, folks,” he said, striding to the piano and putting down his things. “I apologise on Enjolras’ behalf,” he said to Grantaire, “He has been forgetting a lot of things recently…” he squinted his eyes and flung something at Enjolras.

Enjolras lifted a hand and caught the flying object. They clanked metallic in his grip. “My keys?” he frowned. “I forgot my _keys?”_

“Your keys, your coffee, your coat, your phone… what next?” Combeferre gave Enjolras a fond, yet exasperated look, “Your head?”

Enjolras scrunched his features in what could only be described as an utterly endearing way. Grantaire withdrew his gaze and hoped his cheeks and lips were not a shade too pink.

Combeferre glanced him up and down, before squinting at Enjolras perceptively. “Giving dance lessons, are we, Enj?”

Grantaire immediately began to peel his feet out of the ballet slippers and fiddled with the elastics self-consciously. “I was just going, actually.” He cleared his throat.

Enjolras smiled in a frustratingly knowing way. Combeferre raised a brow. Grantaire felt thoroughly left out of their telepathic communication.

“I’d better head to work,” he said, glancing at his phone. “Ugh. I seriously better go.” It was seemingly becoming a habit to be late because of Enjolras.

Enjolras held his hands out, and Grantaire paused for a moment, before realising he was waiting for the shoes. He handed them over.

“Thanks, R,” Enjolras said with his eyes all ablaze and lovely, “I hope we can dance together again soon…”

Grantaire was not usually struck speechless, yet in front of Enjolras, it happened rather more than he liked.

He nodded dumbly and fumbled for the words to say. “Yeah,” he settled on, “Well let me know when you need me.” He waved a farewell to Combeferre and hurried off to work, mind racing. His blood seemed to be warmer in his veins, and his words thicker in his throat. Kissing Enjolras had made him drunker than any wine, and Grantaire longed for his next taste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :OOOOO
> 
> THE MOMENT WE HAVE ALL BEEN WAITING FORRRRR
> 
> it took so long! but! it ! is ! HERE! gooooodbye pining! hello lllllloooveee! (can I promise there will be no more pining? NO. Can I promise there will be love? YES) 
> 
> I LOVE WRITING THEM BEING IN LOVE OMG!!!! so SOFT so SWEET! I am physically addicted.
> 
> please give me all of your thoughts about this chapter! thanks so much for reading!!! I say it literally every chapter but thank you so much to anyone who reads, leaves kudos or a comment! it really is the most inspiring thing to see what you think!! i'm so in love with yooouuuu all!


	16. Duet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire pines after a text, but when he receives one that simply reads "pas de deux?" he is not sure if his heart can take it.

“What are you in a huff about?”

A few days had passed, and Grantaire was unfairly pissed off at a harmless shoe that he had not stitched right.

“I’m not in a huff,” he sighed, rather huffily.

Feuilly pouted his lips together and returned to his sewing. “ _Okay_ …” He dragged out the word. “I mean… Mood swings, perpetually late, vaguely nauseated, and at times, unbearable to be around… You’re either an alcoholic or pregnant.”

Grantaire shook his head. “You do realise that being ‘late’ when you are pregnant has nothing to do with your timekeeping…”

“Hungover, it is.”

“I’m not hungover.”

Feuilly grabbed another set of half-finished shoes and pushed the complete ones to the edge of the desk. “Not pregnant… not hungover… Something is dreadfully wrong.”

Grantaire snorted and continued to work. “I’m not generally a ball of sunshine to be around, so I don’t know where you’re getting your evidence from.”

“Well. You’re being _extra_ grumpy today.”

A laugh scuffed out of Grantaire’s throat hesitantly. “Maybe,” he agreed, reaching for his next task.

“Cool, cool, cool,” Feuilly pursed his lips, “Let’s be all macho and mysterious and not talk about our feelings like _real men,”_ he said, sarcasm drenching his lips.

“It’s nothing, mate… Honestly, I’m just tired.”

Feuilly raised an eyebrow and they went back to working in silence.

A while later, Grantaire’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and his hands fumbled to reach it, dropping a shoe in the process.

Feuilly glanced up. “Who’s texting you?”

Grantaire grimaced and shoved his phone back away. “Right now? My local pizza delivery.”

“Never seen anyone so excited about pizza in all my life.”

Grantaire gave him an exasperated look. “Fine. I’m waiting for a text… like a _loser_ …”

“A text?” Feuilly’s face lit up in triumphant glee, “I knew something was up! I knew it! Who from?”

“I’ll give you one guess.”

Feuilly nodded slowly. “Mr. Wow. How predictable, R. How very un-R of you.” He laughed. “After all these years of making fun of everyone else falling in love with their visiting ballerinas and never having a chance in hell. You have become the very thing you used to hate.”

“It’s different.”

“It’s not,” Feuilly grinned. “Alas poor R, taken under the spell of a ballerina… Helplessly in love… unrequited, waiting for texts, yearning away… Tragic. Tragic.”

“I didn’t say I was in love,” Grantaire said, before smiling wickedly, “And who said it was unrequited, anyway?”

“Shut up!” Feuilly put his shoes on the table. “What the hell?”

Grantaire’s smile itched up his cheeks, and he continued to work.

“Unbelievable.” Feuilly scoffed. “What’s been going on then?”

“Nothing much. He is a _million_ miles outside of my league… A bit of flirting, a kiss…”

Feuilly sat back, stunned. “Grantaire, my man. You’re living every shoemaker’s dream.”

“Dunno,” Grantaire said, “I think the shoemaker’s dream is that the dancer texts you back.”

“He’s ignoring you?”

“Nah, I haven’t texted him. I don’t want to be the first to text.”

Feuilly sucked at his teeth and rolled his eyes. “Boys. You’re all the same. Ridiculous. Just text him.”

Grantaire collated his box of finished shoes and stood to take them through to the warehouse. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”

A few more torturous days slipped through time’s fingers.

Grantaire was slowly beginning to think up a message to write. Usually such dilemmas as flirtatious messages and rendezvous’ were his speciality. But for some reason, whenever he reached for his phone to text Enjolras, his words rambled on and led no-where, and he ended up sending nothing at all.

He was sprawled on the sofa with Éponine, listening to her ramble about job interviews and her annoyances at everything in life. When his phone buzzed, he read the short message and flung his phone off the couch in shock.

“What the…?!” he reached to retrieve his phone. “Oh _no_ …”

“What are you overreacting to now?” She grabbed the phone and stared at it. “Pas de deux?” she arched a brow, “What’s with the ballet lingo?”

In the short space of time that Éponine had taken to speak, Grantaire had sunk to the floor, head in hands. “Oh my God!”

Éponine nudged him with a toe.

“I’m not ready,” he groaned.

“To… dance?” she pouted her lips. “What?”

“ _That…_ ” Grantaire gestured dramatically to his phone, “Is a euphemism.”

“For…?”

“I don’t know!” Grantaire threw his hands up, “Meeting up… making out… sex? I don’t know!”

Éponine tutted. “Excellent communication skills, R. Ask him what he means.” She lightly kicked him again, “What are you complaining about anyway? You’ve been highkey pining after him for weeks. I’ve seen your sketchbooks.”

Grantaire scowled at her through his fingers. “Yeah obviously I am _not_ complaining… I just… feel like if he even looks at me I am liable to have a heart attack at any moment.” He ruffled his hands through his hair. “Like… seriously? Why is he even thinking about me like this? He’s a bloody prima ballerina! A god among mortals! He could have anyone in the world…”

“Stop self-deprecating. Anyone would be lucky to have you. Duh.” She shrugged. “I don’t get what the big deal is. You obviously both find each other attractive… Show him a bit of your R charm. He’s just… _a guy._ ”

“ _Just a guy?”_ he scoffed, “ _Have you seen him?”_

“Yeah, he’s a _hot_ guy. You’ve dated hot guys in the past.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Not like Enjolras.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Well are you going to respond to him… or just sit around mulling over how hot he is?”

Grantaire jumped up and scrambled for his coat and phone and quickly tried to find a clean shirt to wear. “Oh _my_ God!” he muttered to himself, not really believing that he was not mid-dream.

~*~

He arrived outside Enjolras’ apartment blocks. They were old and sprawling, covered in iron-wrought balconies and large glass windows. He took the stairs two-at-a-time, feeling his pulse in his fingertips. When he knocked on the door, Enjolras opened it curiously, his shirt dipping low over his chest, the top few buttons undone. His cheeks were pink, his smile was wide, and the light from inside drew them in like moths to a flame.

“Sorry to text so late.”

“It isn’t that late,” Grantaire said contrarily.

Enjolras waved a hand nonchalantly, beckoning Grantaire in. The space was large and modern, filled with stark white furniture that looked straight out of a home design catalogue. Enjolras fumbled slightly hazily with a dimmer switch, looking at his hands oddly and laughing a little. Grantaire noticed the looseness of his shoulders, the hint of a sway in his usually tightly coiled step.

“Are you drunk?” he asked, a touch surprised.

Enjolras squeezed his thumb and forefinger together with a minuscule gap. “A _little,_ ” he said softly, “Only a little.” He gestured at an open wine bottle on the kitchen counter, and three abandoned glasses. “I wasn’t expecting that you would come.”

“You invited me,” Grantaire said with a smile.

Enjolras covered his cheeks. “Courfeyrac invited you,” he said quietly, “I couldn’t stop him.”

“Oh,” Grantaire’s face fell into a frown.

“Not that I didn’t want you to come!” Enjolras quickly countered, “Because I did! But I didn’t know what to say.”

Grantaire imagined Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre piled on the sofas, drinking wine and discussing him. Imagined Courfeyrac stealing the phone and sending the deceptively simple message. He felt warm at the image of his name on Enjolras’ lips. 

“I’ll have to thank Courf, then,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras poured him a rather large glass of merlot and sat them both on the pristine white couch. Grantaire gingerly perched his red wine on the floor, terrified of spilling a drop. Enjolras stretched out a leg, catching his foot in his hand, arching over dramatically. He then scrambled to his feet and stretched his toes. “Okay,” he said, “Time to pas de deux…”

Grantaire looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “We’re… we’re actually dancing?”

Enjolras giggled, and although the sound was unfamiliar on his lips, it was soft and sweet, and lovely all the same. “Of _course_ we’re actually dancing.”

“You invited me to _dance_ with you in the middle of the night?”

“I thought you said it wasn’t _that_ late.” Enjolras’ lips were stained pink. He held out his hands. “Come on…”

“If I’d have known we were actually dancing, I wouldn’t have worn such tight jeans,” Grantaire said, taking a sip of wine and slotting his hands into Enjolras’.

Enjolras laughed loudly, his head falling back, his hair spiralling into his eyes. “If you keep complaining about your jeans, we may have to rehearse without them…” he said boldly, a spark of mischief in his eyes.

Grantaire decided he liked tipsy Enjolras a lot.

“What do you remember from our lesson?”

“Honestly, I kind of blacked out after a certain point in our last rehearsal,” Grantaire teased. He hovered his hands above Enjolras’ waist and settled his palms down. “I remember that your waist is important.”

Enjolras beamed down, eyes soft under his lashes. “Good thing to keep in mind.”

“Does that extend beyond dancing?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras shushed him and shook his head. “Be serious for a moment, Grantaire.”

Grantaire half wanted to follow each of Enjolras’ words, and stay entwined, hand-on-waist, and chest-to-chest for all eternity, but also half longed to drop all pretences and leave dancing far behind.

He did not want to be serious; he ached to be wild.

After a long spell of minutes, chests so close they occasionally skimmed together, Enjolras’ hands weaving Grantaire into the right position like a conductor, Grantaire felt his desire spilling from his lips. “Enjolras,” he said, stilling their brushing palms, “I didn’t come here to dance.”

Enjolras inhaled deeply, the swell of his lungs pressing their skin together. “No?” he asked delicately, dropping his rigid posture.

“Why would I come here to dance?”

“I didn’t wish to presume…”

Grantaire looked at him incredulously. “Let’s talk openly for a moment,” he said, “No more metaphors.”

“No more metaphors,” Enjolras echoed.

“What did you intend to do when you invited me in? Just dance?”

Enjolras paused for a moment. “No, I suppose not.”

“Well, tell me Enjolras,” he said, “Tell me what you wanted to do.” His eyes held a dare deep within, and Enjolras’ gaze was exploratory, excavating deep into his thoughts.

His lovely wine-stained lips curled up at the edges like autumn leaves. Enjolras dipped his head for a moment, his mouth brushing softly, chastely against Grantaire’s. As he swept back away, Grantaire longed to lean closer. Enjolras’ hair bounced around his shoulders in summer-day ease. “This is fun, isn’t it?”

“What is?” Grantaire’s mind was far from long-winded conversations.

“ _Living,”_ he said, whimsy dancing off his tongue. “I didn’t do an awful lot of it while at the National. There wasn’t time.” He had not stopped moving, swaying as though listening to a silent orchestra, stepping through complex footwork, arms following instinctively. “I want to flirt, and fuck, and fall in love and have my heart broken and just… _live.”_

Grantaire’s throat went dry.

Enjolras looked at him weightily. “I don’t necessarily mean with _you,_ Grantaire. I just… Sorry, I’m rambling.”

There was a low buzz of static in Grantaire’s mind. He couldn’t draw his eyes away from the curves of Enjolras’ lips, and the golden whiskey-heavy taste in the air. “I wouldn’t mind if it was with me…”

Enjolras smiled. “You want to break my heart?”

“I don’t think I’d be able to if I tried…”

“You _could_ try a little harder,” Enjolras said, looking through lowered lashes.

Grantaire laughed a little and stepped back. “I don’t get close enough to break hearts,” he said, “All my break ups have been amiable.”

“That’s sad,” Enjolras mused, watching Grantaire closely.

“You just told me that you’ve never lived because of your dancing. I think that’s more sad.”

Enjolras raised a shoulder. “Touché.”

Grantaire wanted to grab Enjolras to put an end to the simmering, sweltering balance of the moment - to break it down into skin on skin, to lips on lips. Instead, he asked, “Are you drunk?”

“I would not be a Frenchman if I could not handle a glass of wine,” Enjolras retorted. “I’m not drunk.”

Grantaire paused for a moment. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“No,” Enjolras smiled. “But you wouldn’t have come all this way if you didn’t want to find out.”

Grantaire knew that even though it may not be a _wise_ idea, it would be a _nice_ idea, nonetheless.

He lifted his chin and the contours of his mouth curled. “Enjolras,” he said, a touch huskily, “If you were looking for a little wildness then you came to the right person.”

A sudden expression of longing cascaded over Enjolras’ features. His eyes were dark with want and need, his lips were parted like sliced fruit.

“Do you want me to stay?” Grantaire pressed, wondering how long he could survive without touching Enjolras.

“I do.”

“Even if it means you may miss your early rehearsal…?” a wry twist settled on his mouth.

Enjolras grinned. “I’ll permit it,” he said.

Grantaire curled a hand around Enjolras’ shoulder, almost melting at the heady rush that the closeness brought him. Their palms drifted together, fingers slotting into perfect place, skin warm, blood warmer. They stepped closer together in harmony, just like two dancers getting into their opening position before the curtains rose.

All at once, they closed the space between them, Grantaire’s neck arching back, Enjolras’ slender fingers finding their way to Grantaire’s back belt-loops, slipping in, grazing ever so lightly against his overly tight jeans. Grantaire smiled. “Shall we dance?” he whispered, their lips so close, but so achingly distant. Enjolras gazed down at him for a moment, the splendour of his eyes looking upon Grantaire as though he were a saint to be worshipped.

It really was a tiny movement that brought them together - a mere centimetre dip of Enjolras’ chin, a gentle tilt to Grantaire’s face- but in that moment, it felt like a thousand worlds had been traversed to reach that soft, scalding place where two mouths met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gasp! for the eagle-eyed among you, you may have realised that this fic has been bumped up to a mature rating.... I .... wonder... w h y ? 
> 
> also! gasp! the pining! the tenderness! the soft eyes and softer lips! enjolras' longing! grantaire's longing! it's all here baby!
> 
> I loooove them!!! and I just want them to be happppy!!!
> 
> thank you so much for reading! to those of you who have stuck around, I hope this slow-burn is starting to pay off! please let me know all your thoughts on this chapter, and the fic in general! this one probs will be shorter than virtuoso (my other, complete soft boy e/r love story) so I'd say we're past the halfway point now!! love love love love reading your comments - they fill me with untethered joy!!!


	17. Grand Pas de Deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The star-filled evening turns out to be far more dreamy than Grantaire could have ever hoped. Lips on lips, and skin on skin; together feels like the place he and Enjolras are meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks! just a heads up: this chapter is a TINY BIT risque, just letting you know if that ain't your thing! (It's not super explicit, but wanted to mention it in case it's a trigger for you!)

They were on the pristine couch, and Grantaire’s worries of getting a smudge on the material were far from his mind. His mind was a static space, filled with only flashes of scalding white heat. They kissed slowly, as though life’s only purpose was to kiss, and whole years could be filled with closeness and lips on lips.

There was a slight sour wine taste on Enjolras’ mouth, the tang of late nights and heady bliss. Enjolras’ touch was gentle but pressing, the feel of fingers tangled in hair, the pressure of palm against the small of Grantaire’s back. It was warm, and all-encompassing, and Grantaire felt like he could lie down and die happy.

Enjolras smiled, withdrawing for just a moment. His hands edged to the edge of his jumper, yanking it over his head in a swift movement. He dropped it on the arm of the sofa. Grantaire could do nothing but stare, as though he had seen proof of a God. Of course, Enjolras had danced without a shirt on multiple occasions, but his lack of covering then had been part of his dancing process - part of his uniform - now it was for Grantaire’s eyes alone. Enjolras’ skin seemed to stretch out for miles, glinting dimly under the lights like onyx. The distinct defined curves of muscles buried down into the waistband of his trousers.

“You look like you’re carved from marble,” Grantaire said. Enjolras’ brows furrowed slightly.

“It’s the dancing.” He returned to his position, skin-to-skin with Grantaire. Ever so softly, his fingers trailed up to the collar of Grantaire’s shirt, sliding down and undoing button after button.

Grantaire’s heart hammered, beating a frantic hummingbird rhythm. Sharply, his hand reached to Enjolras’, pausing it’s ever downwards trajectory. “Enjolras,” he said, voice a husk. “I’m not a dancer.”

Confusion melted upon Enjolras’ brow. A surprised laugh graced his lips. “I _know,_ Grantaire.” He smiled. “You’re the greatest shoemaker in Paris.”

“I’m not joking,” Grantaire felt his chest skimming the inside of his shirt. “I’m… I don’t look like… like _you_.”

Enjolras raised a brow. “Do you think me so self-absorbed?”

Grantaire frowned. “What?”

Enjolras laughed sweetly. “I’m not generally attracted to men that look like me. I’m attracted to _you._ ”

A pause. “You _are?_ ” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras waved a hand at the pair of them.

“I just thought…” Grantaire floundered.

“You absolutely are not an afterthought, Grantaire,” Enjolras smiled, making Grantaire’s heart race a thousand times quicker. “Haven’t you noticed how awfully distracting you are in rehearsals?”

“I distract _you?_ ”

“Laughing away like you were born to laugh… talking so boldly, so easily… sketching away with that _cursed_ strand of hair falling in your eyes…” Enjolras reached out to push back an unruly curl from Grantaire’s eyes. “I’ve barely been able to keep my eyes off you.”

“Wow,” Grantaire breathed. He felt like someone had scooped his heart out of his chest with a blunt knife.

“So I don’t want you to look like me,” he said, a heavy look in his gaze. “But I’d… I’d certainly like to see you.”

Grantaire’s mind was once again a static, blank mess. He slipped out of his shirt with such haste, he swore one of the buttons pinged off and rolled away.

Enjolras’ eyes danced down the planes of Grantaire’s skin, the softness of his stomach, the dark fuzz of hair, the speckling of freckles and birthmarks. “So beautiful,” he whispered, almost reverently.

An involuntary sound, a sharp little gasp crashed through Grantaire’s mouth, when Enjolras’ lips found the edges of his hipbone. “You -” he broke off, red in the face, “Your flat-mates.”

“They’re gone. They went out,” Enjolras said lowly. “They won’t be back tonight.”

“Oh,” Grantaire breathed, disbelieving the slew of wonder that was hitting him.

“Come on, though,” Enjolras stood, “Let’s go somewhere more comfortable.”

Grantaire let himself be led by Enjolras’ hand. Enjolras pushed through the nearest door, opening it to a bright white space. The room looked expensive and unendingly clean. The bed in the centre of the room, pushed against a shuttered window, was covered in sharply folded coverlets. A ballet barre lined one side of the wall, the floor below scuffed and smoothed down by a million dance moves. There was a small bedside table with a stack of well thumbed-through paperbacks.

“It’s a little warm,” Enjolras broke their hands apart, “Let me open the window.”

With a clunk, he pulled the shutters away. Grantaire had lived in Paris for his whole life, but the sight of the city in all her glory would never fail to take his breath away. The lights were penny bright, setting Grantaire’s vision aflame.

“Look at the view.”

“It’s rather wondrous, isn’t it?” Enjolras agreed, nestling his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder, looking from the window. “You can’t do much stargazing, but I think that the city lights are stars enough.”

“Surely to stargaze you never have to look too far, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, glancing pointedly at his reflection in the wall-length mirror. It was true, Enjolras was more glowing and breathtaking than any star could dream of being.

Enjolras shook his head, hair flouncing like a dandelion clock. “You are too kind, R.”

Grantaire gave an easy shrug and strolled to the centre of the room, stretching and falling onto the plumes of soft cotton duvet on Enjolras’ bed. He kicked his shoes off, and looked up at Enjolras, no words necessary.

Enjolras smiled, a dark bruise of blush pooling in his cheeks. He fumbled at his belt for a moment, unhooking the tight restraints. As he stood, neck arched, shoulders hunched, the enormity of his beauty struck Grantaire so greatly, that he knew how mortals felt when made lovers of Gods.

The belt hit the floor with a soft thud and a skittering metallic echo.

Enjolras joined Grantaire, the pair melted into the feather-light bed - cotton achingly soft against bare skin.

Enjolras’ hands were broad and sure, pulling at Grantaire’s waistband, finding the stretches of skin that made Grantaire gasp.

Their lips were made for each other, their hands forged to fit.

With the brush of mouths, they stepped into position: two lovers. Fingers entwined, their dance began.

Enjolras was unendingly graceful - every stretch of muscle and heave of chest slipping under Grantaire’s palms, so similar to his sparrow-slick dancing. Grantaire longed to be closer still, to inhabit the very soul before him. Golden strokes of wonder gleamed through his mind like paint streaks from an over zealous artist.

Enjolras’ fingers were curled around his face, and locked in his hair. His eyes were bright and burning, and fluttered shut beneath spun copper lashes. Grantaire peppered a barrage of kisses over his neck, and chest and collarbones. Enjolras’ breath caught shallowly in his lungs, and he gazed on Grantaire as though he was a remnant of a lucid dream.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, raggedly, “You are so beautiful.”

Grantaire almost believed the words when they fell so softly from Enjolras’ swollen mouth. It was hard to imagine a lie could ever fall from the holy ground of his lips.

“Look at yourself,” Enjolras implored. He lightly tilted Grantaire’s face to the enormous mirror. Grantaire realised he had never seen himself in such a light: drenched in city lights and bliss, cheeks pink, breath uneven, eyes wild and hazed with rose gold ecstasy. The sharp curve of his nose seemed inconsequential, the heaviness of his brow lightened, the dozen things he focused on when confronted with a mirror, unimportant. “Unbearably beautiful,” Enjolras kissed against his skin. This time, Grantaire believed him.

It was a dance of close proximity. Each ripple of limb and torso building to a sequence impossible to choreograph. Enjolras had hooked his legs behind Grantaire’s back, heels pressed between his shoulder blades. Grantaire had thoroughly lost all powers of speech, besides prayer-like ministrations to a God whom he did not believe in.

It was not perfect, by any means. Teeth clacked, mouths broke into smiles and keening breaths, hands clenched, and traversed skin ever so tentatively. It was at once soft, and warm, and lovely, but scalding hot and desperate.

When Grantaire’s hands ghosted over the stretch of Enjolras’ stomach, he shuddered with a laugh. “I’m so ticklish,” he whispered. When Grantaire’s grip moved to his waist, pressing tight into his hips and holding them in place, Enjolras’ eyes glazed, his eyelids dropping shut, his mouth falling open.

The world seemed to fold in around them in origami swathes, until the extent of the universe felt trapped within Enjolras’ four walls. Curled in one another’s arms, it felt impossible to imagine that the city that shone from the window could be continuing on as normal.

To have Enjolras all stretched out before him made Grantaire feel as though the world would never be the same again. “Jesus,” he said as Enjolras nipped at the soft flesh of his clavicle. “Nothing you do convinces me that you are a mortal.”

Enjolras beamed, as lovely and pink as a blooming petal. “Stop just staring at me,” he said breathily. Grantaire dropped his gaze to the swell of Enjolras’ chest, shifting his rhythm so Enjolras’ grip tightened on his skin. His eyes fluttered shut, the beginnings of a curse crashing inside of his mouth.

“I can’t look away,” Grantaire said, “How could you expect me to?”

Enjolras looked ruined. Like his pretty lips couldn’t form a single word. He smiled as he gasped for air. Grantaire thought he were dreaming, but he knew he were not imaginative enough to conjure every shred of pleasure he was feeling. Enjolras tangled a hand into Grantaire’s hair, the sear of nails on scalp stinging sweetly.“Kiss me,” he demanded. His tight hold of Grantaire’s curls pulled them back together, and together felt like where they were meant to be.

~*~

After, Enjolras nuzzled his nose into the concave of Grantaire’s collar bone, the tip of his nose a shock of cold. His hair fell, cotton-soft onto Grantaire’s cheek. Skin-on-skin, the warmth of the pair of them built an inferno amidst the strewn sheets. Grantaire felt as content as though he were painted in a patch of Sunday morning sunlight.

“Thank you,” Enjolras murmured, sleepy and hoarse.

“Wild enough for you?” Grantaire whispered back, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

“It’s just… nice… isn’t it?” he paused, “Being close to someone.”

Grantaire suddenly felt a swell of loneliness, and knew that Enjolras felt it too. “It _is_ nice.”

Enjolras stared at the blank ceiling, the starkness glinting against his eyes. Grantaire smoothed a thumb over the contours of his chest.

“What’s wrong?” Grantaire asked, after a spell of silence.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” Enjolras turned to catch Grantaire’s gaze. “You know it’s good sex if you feel all wistful once it’s over, don’t you?”

Grantaire laughed. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“Then perhaps your lovers haven’t been quite up to form.”

Grantaire nudged Enjolras’ neck with his chin. “I said I hadn’t _heard_ it, not that I haven’t _felt_ it.”

Enjolras sighed softly, the flurry of breath skating over the skin of Grantaire’s chest. “This won’t make things weird, will it?”

“Course not,” Grantaire assured, “Not at all.”

“Good,” Enjolras stretched out. He looked at Grantaire with the warmth of the sun in his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to lose my shoemaker.”

Grantaire smiled. “Do you treat all your shoemakers like this?”

“Only the best,” Enjolras whispered back.

“I better not introduce you to the Old Bishop, then…” Grantaire joked, “And Feuilly’s better at stitching elastics than me, so I’ll keep him out of the way, too.”

Enjolras flicked a finger half-heartedly against his arm. A yawn eked from his lips. “I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “I could have chosen the Old Bishop to be my shoemaker, but I chose you.”

A feather-lined silence smothered Grantaire’s lungs. He felt warm, and safe, and not alone - though he could find no words to sum it up. Although the city began to creak to life from the window - the stream of traffic building to a crescendo, shutters thrown open, lovers waking, children readying themselves for school - the sanctuary of Enjolras’ room lured them both into an easy, dream-filled sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooommgg!!! could they be anymore IN LOVE? aahhh!
> 
> I'm so baaaad at smut writing, I get way too metaphory and flowery, and just swoony about emotional connections and love, that anything raunchy never gets written! Hope you liked it nonetheless! Would really appreciate feedback on this! <3
> 
> ooh, also thought I'd mention - I have a fic/side blog on tumblr, so feel free to say hello there! https://songbird-musing.tumblr.com/
> 
> thank you so so so so much for reading! please let me know any thoughts, I LOVE hearing what you think!


	18. Debrief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire shouldn't kiss and tell, but he has never been particularly virtuous.

When Grantaire got home from work, he heard a low burble of chatter from the main room, and peered his head in to see that Éponine had company over.

He squinted.

Whoever was on the sofa with her was not her usual calibre of guest. He was extremely clean-cut, fresh-faced, laced into unscuffed brogues and bundled in a garishly patterned grandpa jumper.

“Hey, Ép,” Grantaire called.

Both Éponine and the stranger turned to smile at him.

“Hi, darling,” Éponine waved him over, “This is my roommate, Grantaire,” she said to the guest, “And this is Marius. He helped me get a part-time job at the bar…”

“Oh. Hey, Marius,” Grantaire nodded.

Marius shot to his feet, holding out a hand and shaking Grantaire’s vigorously. “Lovely to meet you,” he beamed, his rounded cheeks pink.

“You up to much?” Éponine asked.

“I’m on shoe duty, as always.” He raised his eyebrows jovially. “No complaints, though.”

“You’re awfully cheery,” Éponine retorted instantly. “Something is wrong.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Can’t I enjoy making a few ballet shoes for a worthy cause?” he said.

Marius looked up, slate grey eyes interested. “Are you a dancer as well?”

“Oh no,” Grantaire’s mind flickered to the view of him and Enjolras dancing together from a floor length mirror, “I’m a terrible dancer. I’m a shoemaker.”

“That’s so cool!” Marius said, enthusiastically.

“Marius is a journalist,” Éponine said by way of explanation.

“I’m only a student…” Marius said, blushing a little.

“Well if you’re looking for an interesting story, look no further than lovely Grantaire…” Éponine pointed and gave a wink, “Did you see that thing on the news a few months ago when those dancers rebelled against Paris’ National Ballet Company?”

“Oh, yeah! I remember. Gosh, that was incredible!”

“Yeah, well, R’s been conscripted by the leader to make revolutionary shoes for his new diverse company… it’s super cool, actually.”

“Stop bragging about me, Ép,” Grantaire laughed.

“Can’t help it, darling. I’m _very_ proud.”

“That’s actually really cool,” Marius said pensively, “I _am_ trying to expand my portfolio…”

Grantaire smiled. “I’m sure En- I’m sure the guy who runs the company would love to get some media exposure. I’ll put you two in touch.”

The joy that passed over Marius’ face was so vibrant and pure that Grantaire wondered if he himself had ever possessed a tenth of Marius’ serotonin.

“Anyway, sorry to dash, but these _revolutionary_ shoes are not going to make themselves… Nice to meet you, Marius.”

“Very much so,” Marius said sweetly, and Grantaire shot Éponine a sly look behind Marius’ head. She shrugged, overly innocent.

He left them to it, working on Musichetta’s shoes for hours, until they were stitched and shaved down to perfection.

~*~

Hours later, the wine was out, and Marius was gone.

“What was _he_ all about?” Grantaire asked, gesturing vaguely at the door as if Marius were still stood outside it.

“Cute, isn’t he?” Éponine said.

Grantaire raised a brow. “He’s very… soft-boy aesthetic.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a soft-boy!”

Grantaire laughed. “I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it… It’s just… your type is a little…”

“Edgier?”

“A little more… destructive.”

Éponine scoffed a laugh and kicked Grantaire’s shin with a fluffy-socked foot. “Go to hell, darling.”

“Where is the lie?”

“Okay, I get it. I have shitty exes. Who _doesn’t?_ Anyway…. I don’t necessarily like him in _that_ way. I don’t think he’d be able to handle me. It’s good to have a journo around when you’re trying to get your dance troupe to the next level. And he’s _sweet._ I like him.”

“Ah. Very self-serving… How cunning of you…” he teased. “You’re using him for the publicity.”

She through her hands in the air with a cry of disbelief. “Babe. You’re talking to _me_ about being _self-serving?_ ” She started acting out an elaborate charade.

“What’s that meant to be?” Grantaire said, struck with a burst of laughter.

“Making shoes, obviously,” she said, doing some weird hammering action. “Don’t talk to me about being self-serving.”

Grantaire smirked and stretched out like a content cat.

“What is that look for?” Éponine narrowed her eyes.

Grantaire raised a shoulder, his vision glittering under the low lights.

“R, darling. What is _that look?”_ she sat up, pushing his shoulder. “If you’re not going to tell me, don’t sit around looking so smug.” She sighed. “Was it _that_ good?”

Grantaire’s mind bathed in the bliss of memory.

“Ugh,” he managed, ineloquently, “He is _so_ hot.”

Éponine snorted. “Did you just sit around admiring his physique?”

“No,” Grantaire’s lips curled. “We… danced a _pas de deux_ …”

Éponine fixed him with a long look. “Meaning?”

“We had the most incredible, like blow-your-brains incredible, like out-of-body experience incredible sex..." his mind flashed to the vision of them in the mirror, all breathless and flushed, Enjolras' lips mouthing that Grantaire was beautiful. "I swear I died and ascended to heaven. And when I woke up he had left me a plate of these weird, healthy vegan pancake things, and he was warming up in the sunlight, and … ugh. Every time I look at him my brain ceases to function.”

“Ugh, I’m jealous.”

“I’m jealous of myself from last night,” he leant back. “Tell me not to text him.”

“Don’t text him,” she said dryly, “Don’t you have rehearsals soon anyway?”

Grantaire pouted and lay his head on her shoulder. “I want to text him.”

She pushed his arm. “Girl, _don’t_ text him. You literally do _not_ know how to play it cool.”

He laughed. “I can play it cooler than you, _girl.”_ He ran a hand through his curls in weak imitation, softening his wide-eyed gaze, and batting lightly at Éponine’s arm. “Oh, Marius, Marius! Your soft-boy ways are adorable!”

Éponine squinted. “I wish you could see how much of an idiot you look like.”

“Rude.”

“In fact, I’m incredibly impressed you managed to get laid. You’re a loser.”

Grantaire laughed and threw a pillow at her head. “Well. I have to text him… for business reasons… so…”

“Yeah, fine,” Éponine said, “Just ignore me, then. Cool.” She did a peace sign and gathered her things. “I try my best with you, R.”

“I’m just untameable,” Grantaire grinned back.

“Too right, darling. I’m out. I’m rehearsing tomorrow morning. Sleep well, and don’t text him!”

“I can’t make any promises!”

Luckily, by the time Grantaire was about to cave and send a text, his phone buzzed.

 _‘Hey,’_ it said, _‘Rehearsal next Wednesday eve. Can you make it?’_

Grantaire stared at the bland words.

His phone buzzed again.

_‘I mean a rehearsal with everyone.’_

Grantaire sighed and flopped onto his bed.

While he despaired, his phone vibrated again.

_‘We should probably meet beforehand… To discuss shoes… and perhaps other things.’_

Grantaire buried his face in his pillow and groaned. Did Enjolras always have to skirt around the subject so ardently? He left Grantaire swerving between lanes.

He typed a response quickly.

_‘The “other things” bit sounds good.’_

He debated over the appropriateness of a winking face emoji for far too long, and finally sent it without.

He slept a restless night, waiting for a phone buzz that never came.

~*~

His work day was slipping by slowly.

Though Grantaire tried to pass the time with jovial chatter, the workshop seemed tired and unenthused. Some of Feuilly’s biggest dancers had stopped ordering shoes from him, due to a broken ankle, and a retirement, and a handful of misfortunes that had all tumbled in at once. As much as Grantaire tried to jolly him along with mindless banter, Feuilly worked in close silence, a furrow on his brow.

By lunchtime, Grantaire was antsy and itching. The shallow, dull buzz that settled on his skin was a feeling he knew all too well. He began to eat alone.

The intercom beeped.

One of the Bishop’s friends creaked towards it to answer.

“R,” his voice broke through the fuzz of Grantaire’s numbness. “It’s for you.”

Grantaire swallowed the gulp of water in his mouth, froze for a second, and half-sprinted across the room. As he got to the speaker, he was choking on the water, and spluttering unattractively. “Hey?” he managed to cough out.

“Gorgeous, darling, R!” came a sunshiney voice, “I found you! I’ve been to about a thousand shoe factories in Paris!”

“ _Jehan?_ ”

“I’ve got an emergency! Can you buzz me in?”

“An emergency? Are you okay?”

“R, my love, you _know_ I’m prone to dramatics. Just let me in, and I’ll explain.”

Grantaire pressed the button and pushed through the door. He looked down through the spiralling bannister, to spot Jehan sauntering up the stairs in a gold and burnt orange ensemble. The distinct lack of urgency in Jehan’s stride suggested a _distinct lack_ of an emergency.

When they reached the top, they wrapped their arms across Grantaire’s shoulders and tucked him close. They smelled overwhelmingly of incense sticks used to mask the smell of weed in a teenager’s bedroom. “Good afternoon, lovely,” Jehan beamed.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Grantaire said, leading them both back into the workshop, “Can I help you with your shoes?”

Jehan fluttered a hand. “I’m not here about shoes.”

Grantaire looked pointedly to the hundreds of ballet shoes that surrounded them.

“I don’t wish to distract you from your work…” Jehan said, dragging the words into a laissez-faire drawl.

“No, it’s fine,” Grantaire said, “I’m on lunch break.”

“Oh, thank God!” Jehan laughed, “Because _I_ really want to distract you from work!” They looked down to the desk where Grantaire had been eating and noticed the half-empty water bottle, and the sad, squashed sandwich. They raised a bronze-painted brow. “Can I take you out to lunch?”

“Um…” Grantaire shifted, “I wouldn’t want - Well… Truthfully, I’m a bit broke at the moment.”

Jehan pouted and shook their head. “I’ll offer again… Can _I take you out to lunch?_ ‘I’ meaning _me_ , meaning it’s on me.” Grantaire turned a little pink. “Come on, my love! I know this incredible place just down the road. It’s _amazing!_ Chic. Vegan. They make all their meals from food waste!”

Grantaire wrinkled his nose.

“Excuse you,” Jehan pointed at the dry, uninspired lunch on Grantaire’s desk, “You were about to eat _that.”_

Grantaire laughed and nodded. “Yeah, alright then.”

Jehan’s sunshiney smile turned into an inferno-intensity beam.

Grantaire scanned the menu, filled with charcoal, and tofu, and seitan-wrapped-tempeh and jackfruit tacos. Before the waiter had chance to pressure Grantaire into making a panicked choice, Jehan fixed him with a stare.

“Are you going to be ready?”

“I dunno,” Grantaire shrugged, “I don’t really know what _notzzarella_ is.”

Jehan squinted. “Um. It’s vegan mozzarella, darling. Made out of soy... But I wasn’t talking about ordering the food…”

There was a long pause. “Ready for what?” Grantaire said.

“For… the… showcase?”

“What showcase?”

Jehan clapped a hand to their mouth, “Has Enjolras not told you?”

“Um… I guess that would be a no?”

“Oh damn,” Jehan looked away, lost in thought, “I probably shouldn’t have told you, then. He probably didn’t want to stress you out. He’s very tactful, in that way.”

“Well I’m immensely stressed out now. What showcase?”

“Enj wants Les Amis to do a showcase at the end of this month…”

Grantaire groaned and sunk his face into the menu.

“I swear he said he had organised a meeting with you!” Jehan protested.

“He did.” Grantaire sighed. “I just didn’t think it would actually be about _shoes_.”

Jehan quirked their head, playfully, their excess of earrings jangling. “What exactly did you _think_ a meeting with Enjolras would be about, R?”

Grantaire’s groan deepened, and his cheeks turned beetroot pink. "Nothing... Um. Leotards. Tutus?"

Jehan closed their eyes and raised their hands, to Grantaire's face.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Shh," Jehan said, "I'm reading your energy..." they smiled serenely and cracked an eye open, "And your energy tells me that you're a liar, and that you and Enjolras are hooking up."

Grantaire opened his mouth, gaping. He closed it again. "Damn," he said, as Jehan grinned widely, "My energy is a snitch." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my fave babey MARIUS is here! is he going to be awkward and adorable and bumbling as ever? OF COURSE! everyone is starting to come together! TYPICAL enjolras being wayyyy too ambitious, and R is giving the GAME AWAY! (or at least his energy is) I LOVE a showcase (you probs know that though!) and I LOVE a lovestruck R, being TOTALLY obvious. 
> 
> thank you so very much for reading, as always your comments have been such a lovely part of a tricky week! bless you all! my heart is so full of how delightful you are! Please let me know all your thoughts! <333


	19. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras breaks the showcase news to Grantaire, and it seems like every word he says reels Grantaire in closer to his side.

Jehan laughed kindly. “I won’t tell him that I know…” they said, “Stop blushing!”

“Ugh!” Grantaire groaned, “How did you out me like that?”

“I’m perceptive. I was an indigo child. I’m a Pisces. It’s in my blood.” Jehan smiled. “Enjolras never gives his romantic dalliances away, but he’s been a little starry-eyed around you.”

“You _knew?”_

“No, I didn’t _know._ I… _guessed.”_

“Has everyone else… _guessed?”_

Jehan shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. Look, R, darling. You don’t need to be embarrassed. It’s not a big deal. We’re not a high school clique.”

Grantaire cursed the pinkness of his cheeks. “I’m not _embarrassed._ I just… it’s just… very _new._ Low-key.”

“Nothing is ever low-key with Enjolras.”

“Undefined, then,” Grantaire grimaced. “It just doesn’t look very professional, does it?”

“God forbid, we’re human,” Jehan laughed. They squeezed Grantaire’s listless hand across the table, their palm warm and soft. “Also… it’s _ballet_. People are in close proximity with each other for hours on end, displaying feats of physical perfection in _lycra_ … It’s bound to happen.”

Grantaire peeked out of the lattice of his fingers, sheepishly breaking into a grin. “ _Right?_ ”

Jehan’s face crinkled into a smile. “It’s a lot. Enjolras is _a lot._ ” They pointed at the menu. “Anyway, I recommend the quinoa. It’s ethically sourced.”

Grantaire panicked and took Jehan’s advice - and to his surprise, it was the nicest thing he had consumed in months.

~*~

Grantaire waved goodbye to Jehan at the door of the workshop. He watched as Jehan meandered through the street, stopping to peruse a flower market. The sight of Jehan all lovely in gold and shrouded in petals would have made such a wonderful painting that Grantaire couldn’t help but smile.

He pounded up the stairs, skipping a step or two in his haste, and returned to his desk before his break was over. In his last ten minutes of freedom, his hands fumbled for his Les Amis shoes and flurried into frantic work.

After a while, Feuilly gave him a strange look. “What’s going on?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes skyward. “I’ve got to finish these damn shoes this week. Apparently we’re doing a showcase at the end of this month.”

“Where?” Feuilly stretched out and began to pack away his tools for his lunch break.

“No idea. Enj- Mr. Wow hasn’t even told me about it yet.”

Feuilly’s eyebrows disappeared into his flop of coppery hair. “Damn,” he said with a yawn.

“Oh, Feuilly,” Grantaire said gently. “You look exhausted, mate.”

Feuilly scrubbed his face through his hands. “It’s just one of those days,” he said, off-hand. “Maybe I’ll try and catch a twenty minute nap in the back.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help…”

“Appreciate it, R. Unless your shoe sugar daddy has got a job going, there’s not much you can do to help. Thanks, though. See you.”

“Bye,” Grantaire said, watching the heaviness in Feuilly’s gait as he traipsed away.

Every shoemaker had experienced ‘one of those days’ where orders stopped for seemingly no reason, and dancers chose different shoe manufacturers, and paychecks dwindled. It always felt like a punch in the chest, accompanied with an unhealthy dose of helplessness.

Grantaire restarted his work on his shoes for one of his regular customers, printing his ‘R’ stamp into the soles, his mind far away.

The intercom buzzed once more, snapping Grantaire back into the room.

He watched as someone begrudgingly went to answer.

“R,” they said, “It’s for you, again.”

Grantaire dropped his shoes for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

“Yeah, hi?” he said to Jehan, “Did you forget something?”

There was a slight pause. “Um,” said a voice, which was assuredly not Jehan’s. “Hi? No… I just had to chat with you. Can we have a quick conversation?”

Grantaire leant his head against the cool metal of the speaker.

“Hi, Enjolras,” he said, “I’ll be right down.”

He made his way down the multitude of stairs once again, a little out of breath by the time he reached the bottom. “Hey,” he said, lifting to the balls of his feet to kiss each side of Enjolras’ cheek. He lingered in the closeness for a moment.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, subconsciously touching the spot on his skin where Grantaire’s lips had chastely pressed just moments before. “Can we walk outside for a few minutes?”

Grantaire glanced up to the workshop, weighing the pros and cons. “Yeah, of course,” he replied, knowing that the Bishop wouldn’t give him too much of a hard time for taking an extra break.

Enjolras pushed the door open, and it was entirely unfair to Grantaire, because Enjolras in the sunlight was a whole different splendour than Enjolras in a dimly lit corridor. He quirked his head, gesturing for Grantaire to fall in line with his step.

“You look… stressed,” Grantaire said, noticing the tiredness around Enjolras’ eyes.

“Yeah,” Enjolras said. It was clear that his mind was a thousand miles elsewhere. “I am, a bit. It’s been a stressful day.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Enjolras caught Grantaire’s eye, and a tight, brief smile flickered onto his lips. “Oh, Grantaire. It’s a very sweet offer, but I’m afraid that’s exactly why I’m here… and my being here, talking to you about it, will likely increase your stress tenfold. I apologise in advance.”

“Is this about the showcase?”

Enjolras blinked. “Oh… You know?”

“Yeah, Jehan visited like an hour ago and mentioned it…” Grantaire revelled in how nice the sunshine felt against his face, and how nice it felt to be walking step by step next to someone, close enough to brush arms occasionally.

“Oh,” Enjolras’ face was a smidge crestfallen, caved in at the furrow between eyebrows. “I wanted to tell you about it, but nevermind, then. What do you think?”

“No, please _do_ tell me about it!” Grantaire pressed, “We didn’t talk about it for long.”

Enjolras’ eyes brightened. “Okay, great! Well I was in touch with an intern at the Paris Opera House, after everything that happened, you know… the firing debacle. Anyway, we’ve been in touch for a few months now, and when they were programming, he brought my name up in a meeting. I think a lot of debates have been sparking about equality in ballet recently,” he said.

“Because of you,” Grantaire added.

Enjolras’ lips quivered as he tried not to beam, blood rushing to his cheeks. “Not just because of me,” he protested softly. “Anyway! There have been a few people higher up who want to capitalise off the fact that people are talking about gender, race, sexuality and body image in ballet. Basically we’ve been asked to fill a bit of a diversity quota, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Enjolras, that’s great news!” Grantaire reached out to squeeze Enjolras’ fingers. “Even if it _is_ just some old white guys programming you in to avoid a social media storm, the fact that you’re getting the message out is so important.”

Enjolras gave a content sigh. “It’s a start,” he said, flopping down onto a nearby bench, leading Grantaire by the fingertips to sit beside him. “So this is all to say… we’ve got a half an hour slot at the Opera House at the end of this month.”

“In two weeks?”

“In two weeks,” Enjolras nodded, sombrely. “So… We’re going to need rehearsal shoes, and show shoes, and there might even be costume changes… Do you think you’ll be able to manage? I know it’s a lot.”

Grantaire imagined the stretch of long, sleepless nights that would be required for him to finish all of the shoes outside of his work hours. He had some prototypes, but he still had the official pairs to craft, let alone the multiple spares that dancers required for showcases.

“It is a lot,” he said, trying to mentally calculate how many shoes he would have to make a day to get through them all. He scratched at his chin, feeling the day-old stubble that was starting to itch through his skin.

“If it is too much for you, tell me,” Enjolras said.

“No,” Grantaire said instinctively, “No, I’ll be fine.”

Enjolras stilled his autopilot response by placing a hand on his knee. “Be honest. I don’t want to overwork you. You _know_ that one of the most important things to me is protecting and prioritising my companies physical and mental health, and that includes shoemakers, too. If its too much, we’ll get someone to help you.”

Grantaire softened. He weighed the heaviness of the task in his mind. “It _is_ a lot,” he said. With a jolt, his mind careened into Feuilly, tired and looking for clients. “I could get a friend to help… halve the workload… If that would be okay for you?”

Enjolras smiled. “Of course. Bring them along to the meeting on Wednesday.”

Enjolras’ eyes drifted away to watch a bicycle racing down the street, but Grantaire could not draw his eyes away from Enjolras. His profile was defined - so well-proportioned that he looked like a god’s template for the perfect human. A subtle tension pulled at the edges of his lips, his skin taut with weariness.

“What about you?” Grantaire nudged Enjolras’ knee with his own, “What about _your_ physical and mental health?”

Enjolras looked at him, jolting out of his reverie. “What do you mean?”

Grantaire reached out for Enjolras’ hand, feeling the jut of knuckles and the velveteen swathe of palm. “Are you okay?”

Enjolras’ head bobbed for a moment too long. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m stressed, and busy… but I like being stressed and busy.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“To relieve my stress?” Enjolras said, his pensive gaze turning roguish. “What are you implying?”

Grantaire laughed. “Yoga? Meditation? _Medication?_ ”

The grip on Grantaire’s palm tightened. “Oh,” Enjolras faked a pout, “I was hoping for something a little more fun.”

“Medication can be fun!”

Enjolras smiled wryly, running an index finger up the sensitive skin of Grantaire’s inner forearm.

“What about this important extra meeting we were supposed to have before Wednesday?” Grantaire said.

“Haven’t we covered everything here?” Enjolras laughed.

Grantaire wanted to drop his head back and groan. Instead he leant an inch closer and said, “Come to mine tonight?”

Enjolras’ lips parted a crack. “Okay,” he said.

“I wish we could go now,” Grantaire said, feeling the hunger in his eyes.

“Why can’t we?”

A beat of silence passed before Grantaire began to laugh. “You’re not supposed to be the bad influence, Enjolras! I’m at work right now! I would expect you to be ardently against skipping work for hedonistic purposes.”

“I actually support workers’ rights, and believe that all employees should be entitled to longer paid breaks… Not going back to work now would be exercising your right to protest.”

Their shoulders buffeted off one another as Grantaire nudged Enjolras playfully. “While I appreciate the sentiment,” he laughed, standing and pulling Enjolras up beside him, “I won’t be taking employment advice from _you_ … You were just fired, remember?”

They walked back to Grantaire’s workshop - half hand-in-hand, fingers brushing then drawing apart and clattering back together, almost magnetically.

Grantaire entered his code and pushed open the door, letting Enjolras in to collect his bike.

“So, tonight?” he said.

“Tonight,” Enjolras said.

“See you after work,” Grantaire said with a smile, turning and climbing the first few steps.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, his hand pulling at Grantaire’s.

The shoemaker was stilled, and found himself looking down at Enjolras - the phenomena of viewing him from above still unfamiliar. Enjolras lifted a palm to Grantaire’s neck, gently guiding him into a stoop, tilting his own lips up into a brief hint of a kiss. “See you later,” Enjolras whispered against Grantaire’s mouth, sending electric currents around all of his veins.

Rather predictably, Grantaire could not focus for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soft. boys. being. SOFT. bless affection and hollaaa to open communication and caring about loved one's mental+physical health!! 
> 
> thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you thought of this chapter! every comment I have ever received has filled my HEART with SO MUCH JOY so thank you so much for your kindness! It really inspires me to keep writing! <33


	20. Sostenuto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are Patron-Minette troubles, and somehow Enjolras seems to always know what to do. He's so perfect, it's almost frustrating.

As Grantaire neared his apartment, almost skipping up the steps in unfiltered anticipation, he heard raised voices. He froze, key in hand, wondering if he would have to draw on some old, forgotten boxing techniques that he had learned a decade ago. He paused, the muffled voices ricocheting back and forth. If it were burglars, Éponine was not letting them get away without a fight.

He slammed the door open.

A volley of heads turned his way.

He let out a sigh of relief. It was just the Patron-Minette crew.

Éponine was stood, pink in the face, stacks of documents in her hands. Montparnasse was pacing frenetically. Babet and Claquesous were sat with their faces in their hands, and Gueulemer was sifting through papers desperately. At the edge of the sofa, was a slender figure, curled, cheeks red, eyes wide, trying with all his might to look at his phone and not be involved. It was Marius.

Grantaire smiled awkwardly.

“Hey folks,” he said, “All okay?”

“No,” Éponine said sharply, “It’s not all okay. Everything has fallen to pieces. G’s about to be evicted, and if he’s evicted, he’ll have to move back to the South.” She cursed loudly and kicked the edge of the sofa. “I just don’t know what the hell to do. It’s all just fucking _over_.”

Montparnasse threw his hands up. “Listen to yourself, Éponine! We’ve got through harder stuff than this.”

“How much longer?” she said, voice turning shrill, “Do you know what I mean? How much longer can we put ourselves through this? We’re gonna be in our thirties soon! We can’t dance forever. Maybe it’s time we started getting work that can actually support us!”

Grantaire scanned the room, catching eyes with Marius. He had never seen a gaze so filled with despair and panic, his irises almost sending an S.O.S signal.

Gueulemer scrubbed his face. “Look, Ép, it’s not _your_ problem, alright? I’ll find a way to pick up some extra money on the side.”

“It _is_ my problem,” she said, “We literally cannot continue Patron-Minette without you.”

“Look, G can crash at mine for a bit,” Babet said, “We’ll figure it out.”

Claquesous shook his head. “Éponine’s right. These are temporary fixes. If we don’t all start having steady income streams, it’s all going to fall apart. My savings are running out. How long before we all start getting eviction notices?”

Éponine let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, guys,” she said. “I’ve just got no idea.”

“Aw,” Grantaire stepped forwards, dropping his work bag on the floor, “Come here, Ép,” he strode across the room and pulled her close. She snuffled softly into his chest, before pushing away, jaw resolute.

“Sorry for dragging you into this, R…” she looked around, double-taking as though she were clocking Marius for the first time. “And, Marius,” she grimaced. “I really didn’t mean for you to see this.”

“It’s fine!” Marius said, falsely bright, still looking like a small animal in headlights. “Um. It’s an all round tricky situation!”

They all stared at each other for an uncomfortably long moment.

The doorbell rang.

Looking to the door, and then down at himself, Grantaire let out a groan. “No,” he uttered, hoping he would have had time to change into something a little more flattering than his work clothes.

Éponine raised an eyebrow. Grantaire widened his eyes at her. She understood immediately.

“Damn,” she said.

“Damn is right,” Grantaire said, ruffling his hair futilely, and rushing to the door.

When he pulled it open, Enjolras was stood before him, looking unfairly princely in his red coat. He gazed down softly, like Grantaire was the only thing worth looking at in the world, and bent to push his lips flush against Grantaire’s. His mouth was soft and sweet, and his hands curled deliciously against Grantaire’s scalp, but R could not help making an alarmed sound of surprise against Enjolras’ kiss.

Enjolras drew back, “Hm?” he said, the noise low in his throat. He looked up over Grantaire’s shoulder, to the six pairs of eyes staring at him. “Oh,” he said, cheeks darkening.

“This is Éponine’s dance troupe,” Grantaire grimaced, trying to apologise with his wide eyes, “And… Marius.”

“Hi!” peeped Marius, “Grantaire told me all about you!”

Grantaire turned around to glare.

“I mean-” Marius pulled his mouth into an exaggerated wince, “Not _all_ about you… not really anything at all… In fact… He didn’t even mention you. Who are you?”

Enjolras looked as though he had been stunned into silence. The entire room sat in terse quiet. After a moment, Enjolras cleared his throat. “Enjolras,” he said.

“Yeah,” Marius was bright red, “He didn’t mention an Enjolras. He must… have been talking about someone else… Another guy… or girl… Or non-binary person. I don’t know… Grantaire?”

Grantaire breathed through his nose. His eyes were locked with Éponine’s, who shrugged helplessly. “Um,” Grantaire said, “Thank you, Marius.”

“Should I come back another time?” Enjolras suggested, lips turning white with how firmly they were pressed together.

Éponine finally interjected, grabbing her things swiftly, and pulling Marius up by the shoulders. “No, sorry Enjolras, darling. We should be off. We were just having a bit of a disastrous dance meeting. Come on guys, we’ll commiserate elsewhere.” The troupe silently began collating bags and coats.

“Commiserate?” Enjolras said after a pause.

“I’m getting evicted,” Gueulemer said grimly, “We might have to disband.”

A muscle set in Enjolras’ jaw. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Montparnasse straightened, his razor sharp eyes glinting. He lifted a shoulder in a delicate, deliberate shrug. “I don’t know… is there?”

Grantaire shrunk where he stood, cursing every second that Enjolras’ lips were not on his own.

Enjolras walked in, hand hovering above all of the paperwork. “Do you mind?” he asked, “I’m pretty good at looking over contracts…” The troupe urged him forward, all circling around him like hungry wolves.

“I’m going to shower,” Grantaire said, realising he was speaking to himself more than anyone else, “Enjolras?”

Enjolras looked up from the documents, eyes wide, lips pink where they crushed between his teeth. “Hm? Oh… Sounds good. I shouldn’t take long here…”

Grantaire turned the shower as hot as it could go, his inner-monologue grumbling at him, non-stop.

 _‘You’re showering alone,’_ it complained, ‘ _while the Greek-God incarnate, that you were meant to be making charged dance metaphors with, is sat with your roommate and her dance troupe, doing their bloody legal work!’_

Grantaire desperately tried to ignore it, washing his hair.

‘ _And Marius!’_ it yelled. _‘He’s spending more time with MARIUS than with YOU!’_

He viciously pulled the shower curtain open, changed into a soft cotton, emerald green shirt. He towel dried his hair, until it hung in damp curls, and rushed back into their living room - bare feet padding on the floor.

Éponine must have grabbed a spare bottle of wine, because the entire crew were supplied with half-full glasses. Everyone was crowded around Enjolras, as if they had known him for years.

“I don’t know why that would be a problem…” Enjolras was saying, a pencil tucked behind his ear, caught in the spirals of his hair.

“Oh man, you don’t even know how much we appreciate that, mate,” Babet said, clapping a hand on Enjolras’ toned back.

“Any time,” Enjolras said, “Anything I can do to help.”

And he looked so indecently pretty, all pink cheeks, and gracious smile, and the Patron-Minette crew were looking at him as though he had performed a miracle. Grantaire coughed.

Enjolras glanced up, and it was as though you could physically see the moment his heart tripped over itself. The legal papers drooped in his hands, and his lips parted.

“Worthy cause for celebration,” Éponine said quickly, “Come on, folks. Let’s get to the pub!” she rounded the troupe up in record time and marched them out of the door.

Enjolras and Grantaire were left alone.

“What’s the celebration for?” Grantaire asked, drifting a finger along the table.

“I said I’d get them a slot at the showcase with us,” Enjolras said. The truth fell from his lips like honey.

“Really?”

“Yeah, it’s no problem,” Enjolras said, as though he could not even see the weight of his kindness.

Grantaire’s breath hitched.

 _I’m kind of a little bit in love with you_ , he wanted to say.

He linked their little fingers. “Come on,” he said, instead.

While they walked, Enjolras said, “You look lovely.”

At the same time, Grantaire asked, “Why did you help them?”

A soft hum reverberated against Enjolras’ lips. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know too many people who would,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras’ eyes drifted away, “It really wasn’t a problem at all,” he smiled, “They seem like wonderful people, and I’d always be happy to help you and your friends.”

Grantaire pushed open his bedroom door. “Do you have _any_ flaws?” he said, jokingly.

“Too many to list,” Enjolras said. He drifted around the outskirts of Grantaire’s room, marvelling at the collection of pictures and paintings on his desk. “Oh,” he said, the sound like crushed velvet, “These are so wonderful, Grantaire.”

“They’re just sketches,” Grantaire waved a hand.

“They are so beautiful,” he said, earnestly, looking at a study of Éponine, and then a handful of sketches of Feuilly. “I’ve always wondered how an artist may view me through their eyes.”

“I could paint you like one of my French girls, if you wanted,” Grantaire joked. A moment too long of silence passed. Enjolras’ eyes were blank and a little confused. “Like… Titanic…” Grantaire offered, “With… Leo DiCaps?”

“Leo DiCaps?” Enjolras frowned.

“Leonardo DiCaprio,” Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, the environmentalist?” Enjolras said.

Grantaire squinted even more. “Yeah, the _actor_ who is an environmentalist,” he laughed, “I’m disappointed in you. I think I realised I was bi when I watched Titanic.”

Enjolras shrugged. “I’m not denying the appeal. He produced Cowspiracy. That’s sexy.” He then grimaced. “Okay, not _sexy_ …”

“What the hell is Cowspiracy? Don’t tell me you think a Cow Elite run the illuminati world?”

Enjolras laughed. “No, obviously not. It’s a documentary about the horrors of the agricultural industry.”

Grantaire winced. “ _Sexy?_ ”

Enjolras batted his arm. “I already took it back! Don’t!” he protested, his face scrunched up in a smile. “ _No_ ,” he dragged out the vowel.

“You’ve got a strange idea of sexy.”

“Stop!” Enjolras laughed.

“Totally smoking Leo DiCaps, windswept on a ship, and brooding in suspenders… versus… sad cows and morally grey areas… Hmm.” Grantaire felt his face break into a grin.

“Do you ever stop?” Enjolras shook his head fondly.

Grantaire smirked. “Why don’t you make me?”

Enjolras heaved a sigh and flopped onto Grantaire’s bed. “I’m not feeling particularly enamoured with all this talk of animal agriculture…”

Grantaire sat next to him. “Oh really?” he bit a smile back, “I thought that sort of thing really got you going… That you would go so far as to describe it as… _sexy…”_

Enjolras reached behind him and thwacked a pillow against Grantaire’s head. “Don’t make fun of me,” he said.

Leaning his chin on his hand, Grantaire took a second to let his eyes trace over Enjolras’ features: the smear of blush, the dishevelled spirals of hair, the beginnings of a toothy smile, and the flutter of his chest. “Okay,” he said softly, “I won’t.”

Enjolras reached a hand out, drifting his fingers over the curve of Grantaire’s cheekbone, and the hollow of his neck. His skin grazed against the shadow of stubble, and then down to the swell of Grantaire’s chest. “Your heart is beating fast.”

“I wonder why,” Grantaire whispered back, hearing the echo of his pulse roaring in his ears, felt it leaping beneath Enjolras’ palm.

Enjolras tilted forwards, kissing hard enough to bruise. His hand remained on Grantaire’s chest, and the other looped into his hair. After a few, searing hot moments, he pulled back.

Grantaire gave a breathy sigh. “What?” he said, feeling the rush of blood to the surface of his skin.

“It’s beating even faster.”

With a shake of his head, Grantaire said, “What are you? My cardiac doctor?” At his words, Enjolras grinned silently. “Of course it’s beating faster… It’s on the verge of stopping all together in a moment.”

Enjolras edged closer, “We wouldn’t want that, would we?” He brushed the lightest touch against Grantaire’s shoulder, fingers skating tortuously over his stretch of skin.

Grantaire reached out, trapping Enjolras’ wrist between his fingers. A quiet, involuntary gasp followed by a wicked smile graced Enjolras’ lips. Grantaire squeezed a little tighter, revelling in how glassy Enjolras’ gaze had become. “Don’t tease,” he said lowly.

Instead of the quip he expected, Enjolras stayed silent, his mouth half-parted, curved into a smirk, his breastbone rising and falling like the ebb of the ocean. His eyes were dark and hungry and they dared Grantaire to close the gap between them, so he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oommgg R is falling HARD. some of my fave tropes are in this chapter
> 
> \- enjolras being the ABSOLUTE sweetest and doing his best to be helpful (and R being totally blown away by that)  
> -marius being DUMB and adorable  
> -artist!R (and enjolras being totally blown away by THAT)  
> \- sweeeeeeeeeeet boys falling in love  
> -biiiiii R  
> \- enj finding R HOT as HELL  
> \- enj being vegan (you will prise this hc out of my cold dead hands) and being very sweet and earnest about it, while a lil awkward  
> \- r being playful, and lighthearted and teasing (because I am incapable of writing them not in love, so this is my expression of him being the contrarian he is in canon)
> 
> what shenanigans are yall looking forward to next?
> 
> Thanks so so so so so much for reading! Every bit of feedback on this literally makes all of my dreams come true lol! Let me know all of your thoughts, and lets cry about how sweet some boys from the 1800s are!


	21. Changement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hazy morning closeness proceeds a rather awkward discovery.

The morning came around quicker than Grantaire would have liked. He curled in the concaves of Enjolras’ form, drowning in warmth and bliss. He wished to call off sick from work and spend the day frozen in time with Enjolras, marvelling at every inch of him, breathing in sync, fingers entwined.

Enjolras woke with a hazy smile.

“Morning,” Grantaire croaked.

“You look sad,” Enjolras said, voice husky from the night.

Grantaire drew back. “I’m not,” he said softly, “I’m happy. How could I not be?”

Turning over Grantaire’s hand, Enjolras pressed his fever-hot lips against the inside of Grantaire’s wrist. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

Grantaire’s chest ached. He pulled his forearm from Enjolras’ skin. “Coffee?”

“Stay?” Enjolras said, rolling back on the crisp cotton pillows, his golden spirals of hair tumbling across his forehead.

“Why?” Grantaire asked, purposefully needling.

Enjolras fixed him with a soft-eyed look. “I want you to.”

Grantaire smiled and relaxed back under the covers.

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, eyes fluttering in almost-sleep. “I’m needy in the morning.”

With a laugh, Grantaire slung his arm over Enjolras’ waist, letting his forehead rest on the warmth of the dancer’s clavicle. “I thought you’d be needier for coffee.”

“You rank significantly higher than coffee, Grantaire,” Enjolras mumbled, lips brushing Grantaire’s cheek. He felt them heat beneath the soft kiss of words.

“How charming,” Grantaire said, with a croak of a laugh.

“I can be.”

“Yet… a little terrible. Saying those sort of things will do my ego no good…” Grantaire joked.

“Let it be stroked,” Enjolras yawned. He jostled Grantaire’s chin with a thumb. “I want my shoemaker to be prouder of his work.”

“Is that a job requirement?”

Enjolras hummed in sleepy agreement.

When they finally both left the warmth of the bed, Enjolras showered while Grantaire made coffees. He sat on the edge of Grantaire’s bed, sorting through his bag and shaking out the clothes that had landed strewn on the floor.

“D’you need something to wear?”

Enjolras sagged with relief, holding up a stretchy piece of lycra. “I knew I packed spare leggings!”

Grantaire raised a brow. “Is that all you’re gonna wear?”

Enjolras smiled wanly and packed them back in his rehearsal bag. “I just mean I don’t have to bribe Courf to grab me some on the way to the studios… I’ll just wear yesterday’s outfit. I’m not sure I’d fit in any of your clothes.”

Grantaire looked at the creased shirt in Enjolras’ hands. “I have some sweaters you could borrow.”

“Really, I don’t-”

“I _know_ you don’t want to wear that creased up thing…”

Enjolras looked down at the scrunched clothes. “Yeah, you’re right. Do your worst.”

Grantaire grinned and scanned through his closet. He pulled out a plain shirt and one of his favourite, fuzzy green jumpers. “It’s one of my favourites,” he said, chucking it into Enjolras’ hands, “So be careful with it.”

Enjolras deftly slipped into the clothes, untucking his hair from the collar. He was drowned in the material, his svelte frame obscured, but the sleeves not long enough for the length of his arms.

“You look good in green,” Grantaire commented. It was true. He looked regal and princely - all ablaze in gold and forest shades - he looked like the inspiration for stained glass monuments and statues, and oil paintings in gilded frames.

“Thanks,” Enjolras smiled and nuzzled into the knitted warmth. “I love it!”

After a long coffee interlude, interspersed with stolen kisses and laughter, Enjolras getting overly handsy, Grantaire broke away, grinning and breathless. “Don’t you have to go and rehearse?”

Enjolras rolled back on the bed. “Come with me?”

“To… your rehearsal?” Grantaire laughed, “I wouldn’t think I would be required.”

“No you wouldn’t be _required_. You would be nothing more than a lovely distraction.”

Grantaire snorted. “You’re really selling it.” He pushed at Enjolras’ shoulder. “You have a showcase to rehearse for. Go on.”

They both made their way to the front door as slowly as they could, finding any reason imaginable to stop, and curl fingers around wrists, or connect skin-to-skin. Eventually, when there could be no more meandering or wasting time, Enjolras nodded and leant against the door frame.

“I’d better go,” he said.

“See you on Wednesday,” Grantaire said.

“I look forward to it already,” Enjolras replied, leaning down to press a searing, final kiss to Grantaire’s lips. He pulled away and stepped out of the apartment. “Thanks for the jumper!” he called back.

“You can’t keep it forever,” Grantaire retorted.

Enjolras turned to give a wink, and disappeared down the stairwell.

As soon as Grantaire was sure the dancer was far from earshot, he yelled a curse as loudly as he could. Immediately he clapped his hand over his mouth, forgetting that Éponine must have returned at some point in the night. As if on cue, there was a groan from the sofa.

“Cheers, R,” her croaky voice rang out. “What a lovely wake up call.”

Grantaire strode across the room to sit next to her on the couch, not caring if she would grumble at him for being annoying. As he rounded the mountain of pillows, opening his mouth to speak, Éponine shushed him viciously. He flinched.

She mouthed something incomprehensible at him and then gestured at a human-sized lump under the blanket next to her.

“Who is _that?_ ” Grantaire whispered.

“I’ve got no idea!” Éponine hissed back, a wildness pooling in her eyes.

“I thought you said you’d rather die than sleep with any of the Patron-Minette crew again…” Grantaire said, rather unhelpfully. She scowled and shushed him again. With the precision of a surgeon, she carefully inched back the blanket, revealing a flop of coppery brown curls, and then a sleeping face. Angelic and freckled, and sloppily half-covered in remnants of dark red lipstick.

“Éponine!” Grantaire gasped, as quietly as he could. “ _Marius?_ ”

She edged from under the covers, pulling her gaping shirt closed, and gestured for Grantaire to tiptoe with her into her room. She closed the door as quietly as she could.

“Aw,” Grantaire said, “Marius? On the _couch?_ He deserves better, Ép.”

“What are you trying to say?” she snapped, pacing a bit.

“You know. Set the scene a little. Candles, rose petals. He isn’t one of us degenerates.”

“Go to hell,” she said.

“Bless him. He was probably waiting for marriage.”

“Shut up, Grantaire, oh my God!” she groaned, “Shit. Do you seriously think he was waiting for marriage?”

Grantaire snorted. 

“Don’t be a bitch. I’m still drunk,” Éponine lamented. She shook her mane of tangled hair and flopped onto her bed. “Help me, darling R! Why is my life just a series of bad decisions?”

“He’s cute! Where’s the bad decision?”

Éponine rolled her eyes. “You know I don’t date colleagues.”

“If you don’t date colleagues, or dance mates, or housemates… that’s like 98% of the people you know.”

“Okay, make me feel worse then,” Éponine put her head in her hands. “Okay. I have a plan. I just _leave_.”

“And leave that poor boy alone, naked and confused in an unfamiliar territory? His tender heart wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“Not _alone_. You’d be here.”

“I can think of many flaws. Namely that he may assume he had sex with me. Meaning he’d be naked, confused, and questioning his heterosexuality. Cruel, Éponine, very cruel.”

“Straight people are the worst,” she groaned.

“Yeah. That’s why I never sleep with them,” Grantaire laughed. “Don’t worry. We all make mistakes sometimes.”

“I don’t know why I looked to you for any jot of emotional support. You’re the worst,” she said, burrowing her face into her pillow. “If you hadn’t been yelling at this ungodly time, I would have slept right through the morning, and he might have left on his own, and I’d have never had to deal with this.”

“Oh yeah, because _Marius_ definitely seems like the sort of guy to sneak out in the morning and never message again,” Grantaire said with a raised brow.

“Whatever,” she shook her head. “Thanks for absolutely nothing. What should I do?”

“You’re the queen of flings. Make him pancakes and send him on his way. That’s a classic Ép tactic.”

“Girl, you _know_ I just get them out of a packet and pretend I made them. I literally cannot cook and we’re out of store-bought pancakes.”

“I’m hearing a lot of excuses and not a lot of solutions,” Grantaire poked, “I’m tired, Ép. Can’t you just run to the shop and grab some?”

Éponine squinted. “I’m getting the vibe that you just want me to make you pancakes, now.”

Grantaire gave a shrug, his face breaking into a grin.

“Get out,” Éponine said, pointing at the door and shaking her head. Before Grantaire could lift a foot, the door swung open, and both he and Éponine straightened like they were naughty kids and the headteacher had just strolled in.

Marius, hair ruffled, shirt unkempt, gazed at them blankly. “Is this not the bathroom?” he said, words a little slurred with sleepiness.

“No, babe,” Éponine said with a weak smile, “It’s the next one on the left.”

As he shuffled away, Grantaire pouted. “Oh, bless his heart.”

Éponine clicked her fingers. “Oi. You’re meant to be on my side!”

“But he’s so sweet!” he put a hand to his chest, “My heart is fluttering. It’s like I’ve just seen the most adorable puppy…”

Éponine rolled her eyes with a snort. “Go to work. You’re insufferable. And you’re being absolutely zero help.”

Grantaire blew her a kiss and engulfed her in a strangling bear hug.

“Get off,” she grinned, hugging tighter.

“Love you, Ép,” he laughed and ruffled her hair, “You’ll be fine. I’m sure you could… take him to the park, and he’d probably befriend some talking woodland creatures, and you could make a run for it.”

“Jerk,” she reached up and pinched his cheek. “Right, get lost. I’ve got some damage control to do now.”

“Make sure he doesn’t leave with all that lipstick smeared across his entire face…”

“Oh my God!” she groaned, “Go, go, go!”

He snuck out, hoping to escape before he became involved in whatever Éponine was planning. Unfortunately, Marius was stood outside of his door, eyes wide. Grantaire pulled his lips into a tight smile. Marius gestured him frantically into his own room.

“What’s going on?” Grantaire asked.

Marius shook his head, covering his cheeks with his hands, eyes roving wildly.

“Jesus, are you having a heart attack?” Grantaire asked.

“No,” Marius looked pained, “Oh, please help me, Grantaire! You probably won’t want to hear this, because she’s your best friend, and I never really talk about things like this, but gosh, I-”

“What are you talking about?” Grantaire cut through Marius’ ramblings.

“So, you know Éponine?”

Grantaire narrowed his eyes. “Do I know _my housemate?_ ” he asked. “Yeah, kind of.”

“Good. Great!” he grimaced. “Well… I’m a little worried that we might have…”

“Slept together?” Grantaire said.

At the same moment Marius offered, “Danced the midnight tango…” and then turned red. “Yes. What you said.”

“ _Midnight tango?”_ Grantaire asked, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

Marius’ pink cheeks deepened to a beetroot shade. “Gosh!” he said, “What I’m trying to say is… _I don’t love her!_ ”

A silence pooled around them for a teeth-grindingly long minute. “What?” Grantaire asked.

“You probably never want to see me again,” Marius cried.

“Yeah, maybe if we were living in the 1800’s… Calm down, mate. I can tell you with utter certainty that she’s not in love with you either.”

Marius collapsed onto the bed, and Grantaire watched him warily. “Oh, thank the lord!” he sighed.

“You must be good,” Grantaire said, a little catty.

“What?” Marius blinked.

“If you think you’re gonna have…” he raised a brow, “ _one midnight tango…_ and then she’ll just be in love with you. You must be good.”

Marius looked as horrified as someone facing death. “No!” he stammered, “No, no, I wasn’t saying that! I-”

“I’m teasing you, Marius,” Grantaire smiled, squeezing the man’s shoulder kindly. “Just play it cool.”

“Should I make her breakfast?” Marius asked. “I don’t do one night stands! I don’t know what to do! Should I… leave through your window?”

“It’s a ten storey drop, so I would only suggest that if you’ve brought your abseiling equipment. Just go out there and be like, ‘hey, Ép! It was great to hang out last night. I’ll see you at work.’ And then just leave!”

“She’ll think I’m a player!”

Grantaire laughed. “She most definitely won’t.” He gave a sigh. “Look, Marius, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to get ready for work. Honestly, just relax. The more lowkey you play it, the happier she’ll be. Honestly, if you said nothing and just left she’d probably be ecstatic… Actually… that _might_ make her fall in love with you…” Grantaire shrugged, “She has terrible taste in partners.”

Marius smiled weakly. “Thanks, Grantaire. You’re a great friend.”

Grantaire, who had met Marius on a mere two occasions, nodded, bemused.

Marius steeled himself, jumping up and down like a boxer before a fight, and burst through Grantaire’s door.

Grantaire left for work as quickly as humanly possible. Whatever disaster was playing out in Éponine's room, he most certainly did not need to be a part of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh the DRaMA! 
> 
> firstly we love a soft morning here. but secondly we also love a CHAOTIC morning here as well. omg. WHY do I love Marius chaos so much? it's a real problem now. 
> 
> thank you so much for reading and always leaving the loveliest of comments - you honestly couldn't even begin to know how overjoyed I am to read and respond! as always! let me know your thoughts!!
> 
> <3


	22. Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis prepare for their upcoming showcase.

When they were on the subway together on Wednesday evening, Grantaire had a stark realisation that he had never travelled anywhere with Feuilly. That their friendship had been confined to the workshop walls. He gave a sigh.

“Thanks for helping, man,” Grantaire said, clinging onto the pole with all of his strength, as the train swerved and clattered.

“Nah,” Feuilly said, a little red in the face from the sweltering, clammy heat. “I should be thanking you, R. I owe you, mate.”

They hopped off at the next stop together, Grantaire leading the way to the rehearsal studios.

“So what’s been going on?” Feuilly asked, huffing in a relieved breath of fresh air. “You’ve seemed a bit distracted over the past few days.”

“Have I?” Grantaire said, almost crossing the road in front of a speeding car. Feuilly’s hand wrapped around the back of his coat collar.

“A little,” Feuilly said, pouting. “Anyway, the favour I owe you has been rescinded. I just saved your life.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t _actually_ going to get run over,” he laughed. “But perhaps I _have_ been a bit distracted. It’s only human of me, to be honest. You’ve seen him.”

“You’ve changed,” Feuilly poked, “Who will be my partner in crime, making fun of the shoemakers falling in love with ballerinas, if you’ve bloody fallen in love with one yourself?”

“You know I’ll make fun of myself too,” Grantaire said, smiling at the receptionist. They climbed up the five flights of stairs, and met Courfeyrac in the corridor.

“R!” Courfeyrac beamed, “Who do we have here?”

“Feuilly,” Feuilly shook his hand, “I’m helping R with the shoes.”

“Wow,” Courfeyrac said, hugging both Grantaire and Feuilly, “Why did no one tell me that shoemakers were all gorgeous? That’s an untapped market there. Literally. Go on, go in. Enj is waiting!” He flurried them into the room with such enthusiasm that he almost whacked Grantaire in the face, he apologised deeply and returned back outside.

Feuilly gave Grantaire a slightly wide-eyed look, and Grantaire could only shrug in response.

The room was abuzz. Dancers were warming up, stretching, dressed in a manner of strange leg warmers and padded boots. Enjolras was conversing lowly with Combeferre over the lid of the piano, looking as intense and determined as ever. As Feuilly and Grantaire slipped into the back of the studio, they were hardly noticed until Éponine gave a comically large wave and sprinted across the room to embrace Grantaire.

“Hey?” Grantaire said.

“Literally save me,” Éponine whispered into his hair.

“What have you done?” Grantaire tried to wriggle away but she was clinging tight.

“I accidentally invited Marius…”

“You _what?”_ Grantaire hissed, “ _Why?”_

“You were right! He’s too sweet. I was trying to be a cold-hearted queen of ice, but then he started babbling on all earnestly about nothing being different between us, and how amazingly we were going to do at the showcase, and how much he’s inspired by me…”

“So he fed your ego and you invited him… So much for _damage control_.”

“Don’t start,” Éponine finally let him go. “You know I’m a Leo. If someone strokes my pride, I’m helpless. Anyway. You know what he’s like. Help make him feel comfortable… don’t make it weird.”

“Weird?” Grantaire laughed. “I love Marius.”

Marius walked up in that exact moment.

“Oh, um,” he said, as perpetually pink as ever, “Thank you so much!” he said, almost looking as though tears were welling in his eyes. “I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before.”

“Aw, that’s sad,” Grantaire offered, before flinching as Marius’ lip began to tremble. Éponine and Grantaire grimaced at each other for an achingly long moment.

“Alright!” Enjolras called from the front, clapping his hands together. A shock of relief coursed through Grantaire’s veins as Marius’ attention was drawn elsewhere. Everyone assembled into a circle, and Enjolras’ shot him a surreptitious smile before continuing. “It’s busy in here today! Shall we do a quick introduction? Everyone say who you are, what you do, then we’ll get on with the meeting. I’m Enjolras, I founded this ballet troupe with the wonderful human on my left. I’ve danced since I was three, I was in the National Ballet, and I got fired for calling them out. Cosette?”

Cosette beamed from his left side. “Yes, I’m Cosette,” she gave a wave, “I’m co-founder of Les Amis, and my introduction is pretty identical to Enjolras’!”

“Hey, all,” Musichetta smiled, “I’m Musichetta, I’m one of the Les Amis dancers.”

“I’m Joly. Surprise! I’m a Les Amis dancer, too.”

“Combeferre,” he said steadily, eyes drifting over the crowd, “The pianist.”

Montparnasse looked up. “I’m Montparnasse. I’m a Patron-Minette dancer. Really glad to be here today.”

Babet, Claquesous, and Gueluemer echoed him.

“I’m Jehan. I’m the resident poet slash genderless faerie folk… I’m also a dancer with Les Amis, I guess.”

“Hi everyone. I’m Éponine… I founded the Patron-Minette a couple of years back. We’re really grateful to Enjolras for inviting us.”

“Gosh!” Marius beamed, “I’m Marius. How exciting! I am a journalist. Well, a trainee journalist. Ah, goodness, I’m so overjoyed to be here!”

Everyone turned their gaze to Grantaire. He threw up a peace sign. “R,” he said. “I’m supposedly the best shoemaker in Paris, according to some…” he grinned at Enjolras, who tried to purse his lips to hide his smile.

“I’m Feuilly,” said Feuilly from beside him, “I’m _actually_ the best shoemaker in Paris, _so…_ ”

“Courfeyrac’s my name… Choreography’s my game…” he paused, bopping slightly to a silent beat, “This freestyle makes me want to cry… I flunked my audition at Hamilton, but I’m not sure why!” he laughed, covering his face. “Ferre, write that down for me…”

“No,” said Combeferre.

“I’m so artistically suppressed, I tell you,” Courfeyrac sighed dramatically, “Where’s the support? The encouragement? This is supposed to be a safe space for inspiration!”

“Courf,” said Enjolras, a bright spark in his eyes.

“Sorry. Yeah, I’m Courfeyrac. I _did_ actually audition for Hamilton, but it wasn't quite _that_ tragic.”

“Um,” said someone that Grantaire had never met before. He was tall, bald, and smartly dressed, and looked like he could strangle someone to death with a little finger. “I’m not sure how I can follow that… I’m Bossuet. I’m a stage manager, artistic director, designer, a bit of an all rounder, really. Joly and Chetta told me what they were doing, and as always I love Enj and Cosette’s idea, so here I am! Nice to meet you all!”

The next person in the group was also a stranger to Grantaire. He scrubbed a hand over his beard, blinking through dark-circled eyes. “Hey folks. I’m Bahorel. I was interning at the National, where I met Enjolras and Cosette. I’m… sort of a lawyer… I deal with practical stuff, and I helped get you your upcoming gig.”

Enjolras beamed, spreading his arms wide. “And that’s everyone! Thank you all for being here today. I can’t begin to say how important you are to me, even if we haven’t properly met, yet. Let’s get this show on the road!”

~*~

While a meeting diving in depth to intricacies about venues, and running orders, and dozens of preparations, costumes, sets, marketing, and shoes, could have been extremely boring, Enjolras steered the conversation like a captain, dragging in everyone’s attention with the fire of his voice. He gestured and bounced on his toes, eyes bright, his whole face shining before the crowd. Grantaire felt his heart give a feeble twitch.

Somehow Grantaire got dragged into making posters for the event, as well as shoemaking. Éponine had _kindly_ volunteered him during a lull in the conversation, when Enjolras mused about artwork. Grantaire was not exactly overjoyed, but the sheen in Enjolras’ gaze was impossible to say no to, and when he agreed, the half-awed, half-hungry look that Enjolras gave him almost made the extra work worth it.

The atmosphere in the room was unlike anything that Grantaire had ever experienced. The camaraderie, the warmth, and unending ideas - it made him feel like he was part of something much bigger than he would ever be. Usually when a thought like that crossed his mind, he cringed at himself, and snorted at the idealism, but his usual cynical grit was grinding away.

He was sat with Bossuet, leaning over some rough sketches, and marking out drafted titles.

“Are you an artist?” Bossuet asked, watching Grantaire shade a dancing figure.

“Kind of,” Grantaire said, “Once in a while. How about you?”

“Ah,” Bossuet shook his head, “My uni teachers forced me to sketch for stage and costume design, but I much prefer having something tangible in my hands… I guess you get it, with the shoes and all…”

Grantaire’s gaze briefly shot to where Feuilly sat, nestled between Jehan, Joly and Musichetta, face split into a surprised sort of smile. “I get it, but there’s something kind of nice about how distant and unreachable drawings are,” he blew on his paper to get rid of the crumbled eraser debris. He shook it out, smiling. Enjolras stared from between pencil lines, a little stern, plenty fiery and with a softness to his eyes.

“It looks like him,” Bossuet remarked, “How’d you do that without a reference picture?”

“Um,” Grantaire cleared his throat, “I’ve just got a good memory for faces.”

Bossuet smirked.

“How do you know Enjolras?” Grantaire asked, beginning his sketch of Cosette, sneakily pulling a reference picture of her up on his phone.

“He knows my girlfriend,” Bossuet said with a strange curl to his mouth.

The timbre of his voice suggested that there was something he was not saying. Was it an ex of Enjolras’? Grantaire decided to respond in the least desperate way possible. “Oh?” he said.

“Yeah, she’s part of Les Amis!” Bossuet laughed.

Grantaire quickly scanned the room. “You’re dating Cosette?”

Bossuet snorted, shaking his head. “Nah, man. Chetta.”

Grantaire’s eyes slowly roved to where Musichetta was sat, one arm slipped up the back of Joly’s sweater, their knees tilted toward one another, their faces dangerously close. A deep discomfort began to sink in his stomach. “Oh…” he repeated, “Musichetta? I- Um…” he tried to choose his words carefully. “Is it an open sort of relationship… or?” he managed, rather untactful.

“No. Strictly, _strictly_ monogamous…” he looked stormy, “She cheated on me once, and I chopped the guy’s leg off.”

Grantaire choked.

Bossuet slapped a hand on his shoulder, breaking into laughter. “I’m messing with you, man! We’re in a poly relationship with Joly, too,” he grinned, “You should have seen your face! You looked like you were gonna explode!”

“Oh my God,” Grantaire exhaled, “Not cool, man! I thought I was gonna cost Joly his other leg!”

Bossuet winked, over-dramatic. “You’re a sound guy, R. What d’you think?” he held up his costume design, and Grantaire took the pencil to make some adjustments to the shoes, and they worked until Enjolras called them all back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holllllaaaaa finally all those les amis are together! it's taken so long! but! here! we! are! hope ya love bahorel and bossuet as well as the rest of the crew! marius' shenanigans CONTINUE. 
> 
> ooh the next chapter is one of my faves! whatever could it be?! 
> 
> thank you so so much for reading! as always! let me know your thoughts! your comments to me are the same as sunshine to flowers - they keep me thriviiiiing!! <33


	23. Dream Ballet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date? Wandering arm-in-arm by the Seine certainly feels like a date. The evening ends a touch more exciting than expected.

As Enjolras, once again, assumed his place before all of Les Amis, Grantaire noticed how the atmosphere of the room had shifted. What had been a slightly nervous apprehension, had transformed into a loud, bubbling chaos of laughter and energy. His eyes drifted to Enjolras, who looked like he thought nobody was looking at him. His eyes were bright, his mouth in a soft curve, a sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, slightly sticking a few, errant curls to his forehead. He gave a shallow breath before clapping his hands and transforming into the fearless leader that he was.

“Okay, folks!” he said, “Quick, quick. I don’t want to keep you here all night.”

Everybody quietened, watching Enjolras carefully.

“I’m a little bit lost for words, but God knows that never stopped me making a speech before,” Enjolras said, “Right! Excellent! All of you. I’m honoured to be in the presence of such brilliant and talented people. We’ve got a long, long way to go, and not much time to get there, but I know we’re going to pull it into shape. Obviously, we haven’t even settled on a piece to perform yet, but me and Courf are working on something that I hope you will all love! More to come on that. Artists, shoemakers, promoters, journalists, you guys,” he pointed at R, Feuilly, Marius, Bahorel and Bossuet. “You seem to be doing a great job. Hopefully next time we meet I’ll have chance to speak to you all individually. Thank you for everything you’ve done. Next, Patron Minette. You’re looking absolutely phenomenal, really great work. Lastly, Les Amis dancers…”

“Don’t be mean, darling, my heart will explode,” Musichetta said. Enjolras had clearly been pushing his dancers hard, because they looked rather worse for wear, sweaty and ragged.

“Why would I be mean? You’re my all star team. Great work! I’ll see you back here tomorrow at seven in the morning.”

“That _is_ mean,” Joly said quietly.

“Go and catch your trains,” Enjolras said with a badly-concealed smile, “They’ll want to lock the studios now, so let’s get out quickly.”

As everyone headed for their bags, dancers changing shoes and shucking shirts and pants over their leotards, Enjolras cleared his throat. “R,” he said. Grantaire looked over, eyes wide. “D’you mind? I just wanted a quick chat about the shoes?”

Grantaire smirked. “Are they not up to your high standards, oh fearless leader?” he said, a glint in his eyes.

Feuilly tucked his face into his scarf. “I’ll stay too, if you wanted to talk about the shoes.”

Enjolras blinked rapidly, “Um,” he said, cheeks turning a hint pink, “No, I don’t need both of you. Thank you, Feuilly. I appreciate it.”

Grantaire made a face and shoved Feuilly’s shoulder. “Piss off, Feuilly. I don’t appreciate it.”

Muffled through his scarf, Feuilly snorted and waved them off with a salute. “Peace out, folks!”

A ripple of amusement passed through the room, and Grantaire could not help but notice the sly glances he and Enjolras received. They all bade their farewells until the dancer and his shoemaker were left alone.

“So much for being discreet,” Grantaire groaned, “Everyone knows.”

“They aren’t idiots,” Enjolras said, stretching out, “And we’re not very subtle, I suppose.”

“Did you want to teach me a few dance moves?” he replied, stepping close.

Enjolras smiled, “No. I wondered if you wanted to join me for a walk?”

“Oh…” Grantaire reeled in surprise, “I- What? Now?” he fumbled for words, “It’s too late, isn’t it?”

“Only if you’re tired,” he said, grabbing his bags.

“Like…” Grantaire narrowed his eyes, “Like a date?”

“Why not?” he shrugged, “You can call it whatever you like… I just thought you might like to stretch your legs.”

Grantaire considered him for a long moment. “Yeah, alright.”

“Alright?” Enjolras smiled, flinging his coat on and making his way to the door. “Alright!”

They walked down the edge of the Seine, Enjolras’ cheeks and nose brushed pink by the wind. He tilted his head back and breathed in heavily. “I think it went well, don’t you?”

“Have you ever lead something that has gone badly?”

Enjolras bit his lip. “I suppose not, I’m too much of a perfectionist.”

“Woah, really?” Grantaire laughed, sarcasm drenching his lips. “I hadn’t noticed!”

Their shoulders bumped together and Enjolras tugged at Grantaire’s fingers. “Sit with me?” he said, brushing at the concrete before sitting down. He untied his laces and pulled off his shoes and socks, cuffing his jeans and dropping his ankles into the water.

Grantaire copied him and sat by his side, the cool water lapping against his heels. “This is nice… if you ignore how filthy the Seine is.”

Enjolras shook his head, “It definitely is better to ignore that.” He reached inside his gym bag and pulled out a large bottle. He pulled out a wad of bubble wrap and peeled out two champagne glasses.

“Do you always carry prosecco in your dance bag?” Grantaire said, raising a brow.

“Only on special occasions,” Enjolras smiled. “Like when I know I have a pretty boy to impress.”

Grantaire wrinkled his nose. “You think you can win me over with lukewarm alcohol?” he kicked an arc of water across Enjolras’ foot. “You know me too well.”

Enjolras held back his grin and poured them both a glass, setting the bottle down between them. “Cheers to you, R.”

“Cheers, Enjolras,” Grantaire clinked their glasses together, taking a sip of the sparkling, warm prosecco. “Cheers to you.”

Enjolras beamed, tucking a finger around Grantaire’s jawline. “I’ve really liked getting to know you,” he said softly. The words came out all velveteen, like a sweetened secret.

Grantaire looked into the intensity of Enjolras’ blue gaze, his chest feeling oddly tight. “So have I,” he said, brushing his lips against Enjolras’ shoulder, half grazing skin, half pressed against cotton.

“I feel like I can’t take my eyes off you,” Enjolras whispered, curling a hand into Grantaire’s hair.

“I know how you feel,” Grantaire’s lips moved to his neck.

“Jesus,” Enjolras said, breath hitching, pulling Grantaire up to his lips. Grantaire smiled, relishing in the bliss that was apparent in Enjolras’ heavy gaze and pulsing chest. “I lo- I love how you make me feel,” he gasped.

“I’m at your service,” Grantaire grinned, fingers tightening around Enjolras’ belt hooks, pulling him closer so their thighs were pressed together.

“I feel rather indecent,” Enjolras laughed.

“Oh yeah?” Grantaire said, prising his thumb inside the waistband of Enjolras’ jeans, swiping over the curve of his hipbone. “How about now?”

Enjolras’ cheeks were flushed and a lazy smile drifted across his mouth. “I could feel _more_ indecent…”

Grantaire kissed him again, hands flicking over the button of his jeans, torturous.

“You wanna come back to mine?” Enjolras breathed.

“Is that what you wanted when you invited me on a walk?” Grantaire teased.

“Perhaps… Is that what you wanted when I invited you on a walk?”

“Absolutely,” Grantaire stretched out.

Enjolras laughed and made to stand up. As he shifted, his centre of balance toppled to the right. “Oh my gosh,” he said, “I nearly just fell in the river!” As his laughter shook his body, his feet fumbled, and Grantaire watched as Enjolras tumbled backwards.

“Enjolras!” Grantaire yelped. Enjolras’ eyes were blown wide with shock as he bobbed in the cold water, he gasped and coughed, his arms flailing wildly. “Shit!” Grantaire panicked. Without thinking, he pushed himself off the edge, and crashed into the freezing depths. He grabbed Enjolras close, trying to stay afloat.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, still laughing, as Grantaire’s hands found his waist. “Hey, hey, hey! Calm down! It isn’t deep. You can stand up.”

Grantaire stretched out his shaking legs and realised they were both just stood in chest-deep, shallow murky water. Enjolras collapsed against him, tipsy and delirious with laughter.

“My hero,” he joked, hair plastered to his face, glinting droplets rolling down his nose.

“It would have been more impressive if we couldn’t reach the ground,” Grantaire said, also beginning to laugh, anxious energy coursing through his veins, head-spinning.

Enjolras kissed him, lips cold and slightly salty. His hands curled in Grantaire’s sodden shirt, snaked around the back of his neck, pulling them together until the entire length of their bodies lined up. “Let’s just pretend you truly saved my life,” he smiled.

After a second, Grantaire pulled away. “I’m going to freeze to death in here,” he said.

Enjolras’ teeth chattered. “Me too. Let’s get to mine.” They both pulled themselves onto the riverbank, dripping, clothes heavy with water. “It’s not too far…”

“How far?” Grantaire shook his head like a misbehaving dog, a spray of water flying around him.

“Five minutes if we run,” Enjolras stuck out his hand. “Come on!”

Just as their fingers brushed, Grantaire cried out, “The prosecco!” and returned to retrieve the half-drunk bottle. Enjolras shoved the glasses carelessly into his bag, and pulled Grantaire’s cold palm into his own. He pulled them close and began to dash, still lit up with laughter and adrenaline.

~*~

When they had finally ascended the stairs, which seemed much longer than usual with all the short breaks they had to take to kiss in corners, Grantaire waited as Enjolras fumbled for his key. He pressed kisses up the column of his neck, hand trailing up inside his soaked shirt.

“Shh, shh,” Enjolras gasped a laugh, “Courf and ‘Ferre will be here. Act normal for a moment.”

“Normal?” Grantaire grinned, “We’re both drenched.”

“Fine. Just act a little less thirsty for a second. One second. That’s all.” He finally retrieved his key and pushed open the door. “Hey?”

“Enjolras, darling,” Courfeyrac’s voice was luxurious and elongated, “What do you reckon? D’you think that shoemaker is gay? I say yes, but ‘Ferre says no.”

“Me?” Grantaire said.

Both Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s heads swivelled around.

“R!” Courf said, his smile dropped, “Enj?”

“Why are you both soaking wet?” Combeferre said, looking quietly amused.

“How improper! You shouldn’t ask such things, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac laughed. “And, no, lovely R. We know _you’re_ not straight…” he looked them both up and down for a long moment, eyes lingering on their curled together fingertips, “You make _that_ rather obvious. No, your copper-haired associate.”

“Nah, Feuilly isn’t straight either. I don’t have many hetero associates.”

“Wise,” Courfeyrac nodded, he raised his eyebrows at Combeferre, “Ha! I told you.”

Enjolras’ hand subtly tugged at the tails of Grantaire’s shirt. His little finger curled to brush against a stretch of his back. Grantaire’s thoughts drifted far away from Feuilly and anything remotely heterosexual.

“R needs to take a shower,” Enjolras gestured to his room, “So, see you later.”

The two housemates smiled and dropped their gaze as Enjolras practically dragged Grantaire into his room.

Enjolras kicked his door shut and chucked his phone at Grantaire. “Choose something to listen to.”

“Why don’t you?” Grantaire scrolled through Spotify, debating between jazz or soul.

“Ballet music isn’t very sexy…” Enjolras laughed.

Grantaire smiled and settled on one of his favourite eclectic jazz playlists, full of brooding brasses and suggestive rhythms.

“You’ll catch a cold if you stay in those clothes much longer,” Enjolras said, eyes heavy with need. “I’ll help you, since you saved my life…” he smiled, dropping his lips to Grantaire’s collarbones, his fingers almost ripping Grantaire’s buttoned shirt open.

“Who knew jumping in the shallowest section of the Seine would pay off so well,” Grantaire grinned, peeling out of his sleeves with some difficulty.

“Yeah, not letting me die, and basic human decency is a real turn on for me,” Enjolras said with a laugh, struggling with Grantaire’s soaked jeans, “And… not gonna lie… you look insanely hot with wet hair.”

“I’ll jump in the Seine more often, then.” Grantaire leaned back as Enjolras finally pulled his jeans off, “Or carry around a watering can to pour on my head whenever you’re nearby.”

Enjolras’ lips were kissing up and down Grantaire’s hip bones, fingernails crushing into his thighs. Grantaire’s usual slew of witty remarks faded into silence. “I feel drunk on you,” Enjolras said.

“Poetic,” Grantaire let out a shuddery gasp. “Ugh, why are you still dressed?”

They both wriggled Enjolras out of his wet-tight clothes, both of their skin feeling a little feverish against each other. “I hope I don’t get flu,” Enjolras said, “Sorry, mood-killer.”

Grantaire rumpled Enjolras’ perfectly made duvet out of place and pulled it over both of their heads. The light seeped through in a golden haze, and they were so close they could feel every breath. “I’ll keep you warm,” Grantaire promised, letting his hands drift down over Enjolras’ shoulders and torso.

“God,” Enjolras groaned, writhing under Grantaire’s touch. “I need you, R,” he said, each word punctuated with a shaky breath.

“You’ve got me,” Grantaire smiled, kissing him softly and sweetly, bringing them together gently, and then not so gently.

With Enjolras before him, all bright and flushed and glowing, hair damp, skin burning warm, Grantaire wanted to sear the memory of this moment deep into his brain. He wanted to worship, and be held, and spill their souls together between them. It was hard to feel lonely when wrapped in such bliss, but a traitorous little voice in the back of his mind whispered _‘I want to love and be loved back,’_ and despite the breathtaking pleasure, and the closeness, he wanted to curl himself into the cavities of Enjolras’ heart and rest a while.

Enjolras let out a soft little groan against Grantaire’s neck, eyelids falling shut, and Grantaire forced himself to ignore the pang of yearning, and instead focus on the very tangible swell of Enjolras’ chest against his own as he breathed. In and out, their breaths mingled, they drew each other into their own lungs, and got lost inside one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my GOSH why am I OBSESSED with DREAMY settings. Strolling by the Seine in this fic, stargazing in Virtuoso, it's like UGH give me those soft, floaty images and the chance to make dreamy metaphors and I am in my happy place wow.
> 
> okay I'm so in love with these boys, and I hope this soft romantic chapter fills you with all the feeeeels (after a BUNCH of platonic banter that takes up like 80% of this fic) Feel the YEARN! 
> 
> (also to any of ya who do know my other fic virtuoso, to subtly imply that Enj didn't know much about music in this chapter was really hard for me lol, I felt like I was betraying him. sorrrryyyyy composer!enjolras I have let you down!!) 
> 
> thank you so very much for reading! I would loooooooove to know all your thoughts, it is honestly the most inspiring thing in the world to read your LOVELY comments like WOW my heart swells with each one I read! Thank you for giving such heart-warming feedback! Lemme know if you liked this chapter!! <3


	24. Pas de Trois?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire receives breakfast and a lecture from everybody's favourite duo: Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

Grantaire awoke to the sound of feet brushing back and forth across the hardwood floor. He cracked open his eyes blearily, to see Enjolras stretching and doing some rudimentary steps.

“Morning,” he said croakily.

“Shh, shh,” Enjolras whispered, “Go back to sleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You look really good,” Grantaire yawned.

Enjolras smiled and flexed his toes, hopping from foot to foot. “Thank you for last night.” His gaze turned flirty, “I was a little worried that I wouldn’t be able to dance properly.”

Grantaire snorted. “I would hate to put my dancer out of action.”

“That would be highly irresponsible,” Enjolras said, dipping up and down.

With a stretch, Grantaire’s knuckles brushed against the headboard of Enjolras’ bed, and he bathed in how otherworldly it felt to be there. “D’you want to be a little more irresponsible now?” he asked, arching his back.

Enjolras gave a wan smile. “While you make a convincing case… I really _do_ have to get to rehearsal.”

Grantaire closed his eyes and burrowed into the covers for extra warmth. “It’s always rehearsals with you, isn’t it?”

“I did warn you,” Enjolras said, a light note in his tone. He dropped onto the edge of the bed and leant to kiss Grantaire, his lips warm and lazy. “Terrible lovers, remember?”

“Not terrible,” Grantaire’s mouth curved. “Just busy.”

“Same thing, really,” Enjolras slipped his feet from his pointe shoes and laced up his Doc Martens. He heaved a sigh that sent a curl on his forehead flying. In a soft, faraway voice he said. “I wish I could be better for you, Grantaire.”

“Better?” Grantaire sat upright, thoroughly awake. “Are you joking, Enj? This has been great… Like… better than great… the best!”

“Shh, go back to sleep,” Enjolras said with a laugh, pushing him gently down by the shoulder. “It’s too early.”

“I wouldn’t change any bit of this,” he said, “I love this.” Enjolras’ eyes widened a fraction before Grantaire had finished speaking, and then he looked away, cheeks dark.

“Good,” he said, voice feather-light, “I love _this_ , too.”

He got up off the bed, and quickly began to gather his belongings. Within record speed, he was buttoned into his coat and lingering by the door. “See you later, R.”

“Bye,” Grantaire said, watching as Enjolras slipped away, and staring at the door as it clunked shut.

A while later, his bag full of damp clothes, wearing the green jumper that Enjolras had borrowed and not returned, he crept out into the sitting room. Combeferre was sat hunched over a newspaper at the breakfast counter, muttering darkly, and Courfeyrac was sat _on_ the counter, an enormous coffee in hands, a vacant look in his eyes.

So much for a stealthy escape.

He stepped out and smiled thinly. “Hey,” he said, trying to beeline for the door.

“Oh, R!” Courfeyrac said, his voice hoarse. “Coffee?”

“Morning,” Combeferre looked up from his paper, pushing his glasses up his nose and blinking in the light. “Did Enjolras wake you up at an ungodly time, too?”

“He didn’t mean to,” Grantaire said, heart feeling soft at the image of Enjolras stretching in the morning glow.

“Well he certainly meant to with us,” Courfeyrac complained, “A rehearsal at seven in the morning? I feel like I’m living in Stalinist Russia.”

Combeferre scrunched up his nose. “You’d be farming from the crack of dawn in a communist regime, not drinking bougie coffee and arriving late to a dance rehearsal.”

“You _bought_ this bougie coffee, need I remind you? I’d drink anything if it had caffeine in it.”

“Ah, but then it wouldn’t be fair-trade, and that’s highly unethical.” Combeferre returned to his newspaper.

Courfeyrac looked as though he was going to reply but instead rolled his eyes. He looked at Grantaire and shrugged. “We have company, darling. Save the lecture for another time.” He crossed one leg over the other and fixed Grantaire with a stare. “Did Enj leave without making you breakfast?”

“Um…” Grantaire glanced at the door. “I mean… He had to get to the studios, and I’m not particularly hungry, anyway…”

“Gosh, it’s like _some of us_ never were taught manners,” Courfeyrac said, pushing Combeferre’s shoulder with his socked foot.

“Do you want breakfast?” Combeferre said, narrowing his eyes at Courf.

“Um, no, I… I really don’t want to get in the way-”

Courfeyrac shushed him and hopped off the counter, guiding him to sit down. “We need a good excuse to be late, so just stay a while. ‘Ferre makes a mean avo toast.”

“I do,” Combeferre beamed, making his way towards the bread bin and waving a fancy looking sourdough loaf.

“Okay, if you’re sure…”

“R, we’re gonna treat you so good you’ll forget who Enjolras even is.”

Combeferre frowned and shook his head at Grantaire. “No mixture of bread and avocado could be _that_ good.” 

~*~

They ate amidst amicable chatter, Combeferre more loose-limbed and loose-lipped that he usually was around Grantaire, and Courfeyrac a touch less dramatic in the mornings.

“So,” Courf said, now making his way through his second coffee, “You’ve changed your tune…”

“What tune?” R munched, trying not to be the focus of scrutiny.

“If I recall correctly… you said Enjolras was… ‘intense.’” Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows, “I remember clearly, because I challenged you to a duel.” 

“I never said I didn’t _like_ intense,” Grantaire reasoned.

“You’ve definitely made quite the impression on him,” ‘Ferre said, nibbling his toast crust.

“Me?”

“Of course. He doesn’t make time for people easily.”

“I swear,” Courf shook his head, “We _live_ together and I haven’t seen him stop dancing in years. It’s always pliés around the table, leaps through the hall… Sometimes I think he’s more concerned by what his feet are doing than his friends… But… he wasn’t dancing last night when you were here…”

Grantaire laughed easily. “What can I say? I seem to have that effect on people… The annoying-distraction-effect.”

“I’m not joking,” Combeferre said. “He clearly regards you very highly… So… Don’t be a dick.”

Grantaire choked on his mouthful of avocado. “I’m never a- _What?_ ”

“BDE is different to straight-up dick energy,” Courfeyrac said knowledgeably, “But you kind of have a bit of both.”

“All of my exes love me!” Grantaire said before grimacing, “Okay, that kind of sounds like I’m proving you right, but honestly… I would never do anything to hurt Enj, never!”

Combeferre appraised him.

“I wouldn’t! I’m a big believer in honesty and openness, and being real with each other. Bad vibes are not allowed.”

Combeferre’s lips softened slightly into a fraction of a smile. “Good. Because he is too talented to waste his time being heartbroken.”

Grantaire snorted. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea. I couldn’t break his heart if I tried. He doesn’t like me _that_ much, it’s super casual.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac shared a look - the sort of look that people who spend too much time together share.

“I’m being serious,” Grantaire pushed, “If anyone’s heart is getting broken, it would be mine. We all know he’s about ten million times out of my league…”

Courfeyrac tutted and shook his head. “Let’s stop harassing our esteemed guest, shall we, ‘Ferre? He’s speaking nonsense, now. As if _anybody_ would be out of the best shoemaker in Paris’ league.”

Grantaire laughed and finished his coffee. “This best shoemaker in Paris thing is a joke… you know that, right? I would probably get hung, drawn, and quartered if my colleagues heard me claiming that title.”

Courf paused, watching Grantaire smile before he leaned over and ruffled a hand through the shoemaker’s curls. “You’re just the cutest, aren’t you, R? Cute as a button. Isn’t he, ‘Ferre?”

“As sweet as a peach,” Combeferre said, eyes sparkling.

“So…” Grantaire scrunched up his face, “Sweet as a peach, cute as a button, the best shoemaker in Paris and a bit of a dick…? I’m putting that on my resumé.”

As they all laughed, Grantaire felt an uneasiness across his chest chip away, and he sunk into the moment like a warm bath on a winter’s day.

~*~

Jangling his keys in the lock after a long shift, Grantaire was ready to collapse into bed. He had spent too many nights in a row with just a few hours of sleep - lost in work or Enjolras’ embrace. As soon as the door creaked open he smelled the most enticing aroma that had ever been inside the flat.

“What’s going on?” he said as he stepped inside, “Why does it smell nice?”

Éponine laughed, over-the-top, “It always smells nice, darling. We’re making cookies!”

Grantaire’s eyes tracked over Éponine’s shoulder to a figure waving with a wooden spoon.

“Cosette?” he said.

“Hi, R!” she had her hair tied off her face, and looked fresh and radiant without make-up. “I hear that you and Enjolras have been working quite closely together!” she said with a sugary giggle. “How are the shoes going?” she added, with a wink.

Grantaire groaned and dropped onto the sofa. “How does everyone know?”

“Darling, you’re about as subtle as an earthquake,” Éponine said, “An earthquake that reaches ten on the Richter scale.”

Grantaire narrowed his eyes. “Great.” He looked over to Cosette, who was trying to bite back her smile. “What brings you here, Cosette?”

She looked up, eyes all sparkling and doe-like. “Éponine invited us over to watch a movie.”

“Us?” Grantaire said, but before the word was fully out of his mouth, one of the doors swung open, and Marius strolled in, wearing an oversized apron. “Marius?” Grantaire knew for a fact that he and Ép categorically did not own _any_ floral aprons, so he had no idea where Marius had acquired it from. He wanted nothing more than to drag Éponine to the side and ask her what the hell she was doing, but she seemed content enough, greasing a baking tray, guiding Cosette's hand with a giggle.

“Oh!” Marius said brightly, “I wasn’t expecting you back here!”

“I… _live_ here?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows.

“I know, but we bet you would be having a shoe meeting with Enjolras…” Marius joined the two girls in the kitchen and began scooping out cookies.

“Why is everyone being weird about Enjolras and I?”

“Oh,” Marius turned a rosy colour, but continued to work, “I didn’t mean to be weird… It’s not like I was imagining you two _together_ , or anything… just that you… might be… busy?” he trailed off.

“Yeah,” Grantaire grimaced, “Still a _bit_ weird. Éponine, I’ve got something of yours in my room, could you come and grab it?” It was a tragic lie, but he was desperate for information.

“Can you not just get it for me?” Éponine looked pointedly at her cookie dough covered hands.

Grantaire gave a heavy sigh and realised that the interrogation would have to wait. “Nevermind,” he said, “It’s not important.” He grabbed some leftovers from the fridge. “Anyway, I’m exhausted so I think I’m gonna crash. Sorry for not being good company.”

They all smiled and waved him away, and he felt thoroughly dismissed as they all leant over the mixing bowl, heads drawn together like magnets.

The world felt like it had tipped slightly off balance - why was Éponine baking with the two gentlest souls Grantaire had ever met? Usually a microwavable mug cake would be seen as too much effort for her. He squinted at her meaningfully, leaning by his doorframe, trying to communicate with her telepathically.

She pursed her lips and shrugged. “You alright, R?” she called over, attracting Marius and Cosette’s attention. “Your eyes are twitching. Maybe you’ve got an infection.”

“Oh, you should really get that checked out!” Cosette said, worried, “My mum had an eye infection once, it was horrible!”

Grantaire shook his head infinitesimally at Éponine who grinned wickedly. “I think I’m just tired,” he fibbed, “Enjoy, folks!” 

He closed his door behind him, tucked himself into bed and logged into Netflix, waiting until he could finally squeeze all the gossip out of Éponine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yaaaay! thanks for reading! 
> 
> as always, I can't stop writing platonic as heck scenes with the gang, but WHAT is ep UP to? S o much intrigue... so much mystery... AND ALSO an ALMOST I LOVE YOU?!?!?! gosh these boys are so close aren't they?!!
> 
> and this fic is SO close to being finished! I reckon it will be between 30-32 chapters, so not long left to go now! 
> 
> thank you so so so so so so much for reading! let me know your thoughts on this chapter - reading and responding to comments is like my weekly serotonin boost! thank you so much for all the wonderful comments left so far, you have no idea how much they mean to me!! what do you wanna see before this world is finished? 
> 
> seeeee you soon for some answers and .......... 'a talk'..........   
> (that is hopefully very mysterious and intriguing teehee) <333


	25. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Éponine is scheming, the showcase is getting closer, and Enjolras wants to have a very ominous sounding 'talk.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regular trigger warning to let you know there's some slightly nsfw-ish moments at the end of this chapter - as always, it isn't super raunchy - but just letting ya know if it ain't your thing! <3

As soon as the door clunked shut, Grantaire counted down from five, and before he had reached the number one, Éponine was at his doorway.

Grantaire nodded his head to where Marius and Cosette had been moments before. “Bit of a weird mix of people,” he commented.

“Is it?” Éponine jumped onto his bed, making one of his shoes flip onto the floor. He frowned.

“Not going to elaborate, then?” he said, groaning as he reached to retrieve the half-finished slipper. “Why are you hanging out with someone you couldn’t wait to get rid of a few days ago, and one of my dancers?”

Éponine huffed a laugh. “Cosette is her _own_ dancer,” she said, fluffing her hair up in the mirror.

Grantaire nodded, reaching to put his headphones back on.

“Hey!” Éponine looked wounded and unplugged the cable from his phone. “Is that it?”

“You made it clear you weren’t going to say anything else…”

“Your mind games don’t work on me, darling,” she smiled toothily. “But I will tell you all there is to tell…” She stretched out. “I’m going to set Cosette and Marius up.”

Grantaire winced. “… _Why?_ ”

“Because they are both incredibly cute and I want Marius to stop being weird around me…”

“And you think that having thruple cookie baking movie dates at our place is going to help that because…?”

“You brought up thruple, not me!” she beamed, “If that happens, I’m not complaining, but I’m not _trying_ to make it happen.”

“It looked a lot like you _were_ trying to make it happen…” he said, suspiciously. She laughed and batted at his arm.

“What can I say? I’m just naturally charming!” she winked. “And if they were to offer… who would I be to turn them down?”

Grantaire snorted and rolled his eyes. “Reminder that none of this has happened, and you’re getting carried away. I don’t think Marius and Cosette are the _thruple_ sort…”

“I’ve seen stranger things,” Éponine said with a shrug, “Don’t be judgemental.”

“I’m just _saying…_ Marius called sex ‘ _the midnight tango.’”_

“That’s… _sweet._ Endearing.”

Grantaire laughed. “Whatever, Ép. Go for it, if you want. You just might be barking up the wrong tree.”

“Have I ever been wrong before?” she said, staring at him with overly large eyes, batting here eyelashes dramatically.

“Too many times to count.”

“Just you wait, darling,” she sat up, “You’ll see.”

He grinned at her and turned his attention back to his shoemaking.

“So…” she dragged out the vowel, “How was the… _wink, wink_ … midnight tango?”

He grimaced. “Don’t call it that.” He gave a sigh. “It was a bit… weird.”

“Uh-oh,” Éponine said, looking overjoyed. “What’s he into? Did he want to tie you up?” she gasped, “Is he into feet?” she gasped again, even louder, “Oh my God! Is he a furry?”

Grantaire scrunched up his face. “No on all three counts… but that sounds awfully _judgemental_ from someone who is trying to engineer a thruple…”

“I wouldn’t judge _him_ for being a furry… but I would judge _you_ for being into it…”

Grantaire tutted. “I think I’m getting in a bit too deep…”

“Oi, oi,” Éponine said, winking lewdly.

“Seriously, Éponine? I’m baring my soul, and all you can say is _‘oi, oi’?_ Unbelievable.” He tried to stop himself from smiling.

“Sorry, darling,” she rubbed his shoulder, “Bare that soul.”

He leaned back onto his bed, so that their heads were side by side.

“Have you ever thought you were in love with someone because the sex was so good?”

She let out a soft laugh. “All the time. It usually passes pretty quickly, though.”

He stared up at his ceiling, tracing the whorls in the paint. “And if it doesn’t? Pass quickly, I mean.”

The duvet cover rustled with the sound of her turning to face him. “I think all intimacy is a form of love,” she said, “It doesn’t mean you’ve got to get married, or make some grand declaration… It’s good to feel things… It’s good to love someone you let so close… doesn’t mean you’re _in_ love with him.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Grantaire mused. A long silence passed. “It must be nice to be loved, though…”

She scoffed loudly. “You _are_ loved, R. I love you. Pretty much everyone you meet loves you. I’m sure Enjolras has love for you as well. If he didn’t, do you think you would be seeing him every few days? He’s like the busiest person I’ve ever met, and you have private appointments with him multiple times a week.” She cozied into his shoulder, “Don’t feel blue, darling. Love is an infinite resource, and you get a lot of it.” She let out a soft, breathy sigh. “What’s making you say all this?”

Grantaire’s mind flickered back like an old, distorted film tape. “I just had the distinct feeling that I wanted to, like… curl up inside his heart…” he made a face, “Saying that aloud makes me realise how much of a loser I sound like.”

She squeezed an arm under his shoulders and pulled him close. “Oh, sweet boy. Why don’t you speak to him about it?”

He shook his head. “No. He already said _‘I wish I could be better for you,’_ all soft and sadly, like he was about to break things off,” Grantaire crushed his lower lip between his teeth, “He’s just so busy. I think I’m a good escape for him, but I don’t think he could handle anything more.”

Éponine watched him for a long moment. “Well, you know what’s best. Just do what is right for you. Things will turn out how they’re meant to turn out.”

He smiled and placed a kiss on her temple. “You’re the best, Ép. The wisest friend I will ever have. The most splendiferous human on earth.”

She grinned and sat up, using his ribcage to lean on. He let out a beleaguered groan and sat up next to her, their feet side by side on the hardwood floor - lined up like they were meant to be beside one another.

“Wanna watch something trashy?” she asked, “Or something that makes us cry?”

“Ideally something that is both trashy and makes us cry,” Grantaire said, scooting back to lean against the headboard, passing his laptop to Éponine. “You choose.” 

“Oh!” she cried, hopping up and darting away. She returned with a plate of cookies. “The fruits of my labour! No-one can be sad while eating a cookie - it’s law.”

He smiled at her ruefully, and took a bite. “You’re right,” he said, “It’s physically impossible.”

She gave him a knowing look, loaded up Queer Eye and they settled down to watch, tucked close like twins in the womb. Her hair was stuck to Grantaire’s cheek, and it itched, and she was leaning on his arm so it had lost sensation - but he realised all at once, how at home it felt to be next to Éponine.

~*~

At the workshop, Grantaire and Feuilly surreptitiously traded colour swatches for their Les Amis shoes.

It wasn’t _technically_ allowed for them to take work without it passing through the office, and being approved - but that process took a lot of paperwork and time, and time was something they had very little of. Luckily, they had built up such a camaraderie over the years, that no-one tended to bother them anyway, and when they did, they were rather good at acting not highly suspicious.

“So, what did you think of the meeting?” Grantaire asked, rushing through an order from one of his regulars.

“It was a _lot...”_ Feuilly said discreetly, “But… in a good way?”

“Yeah, that about sums it up.”

“Everyone seems really nice, and… a little bit bizarre.”

“Fair comment,” he agreed, thinking of Jehan, Musichetta and Courfeyrac’s impromptu singing bowl ceremony that had taken place in the middle of rehearsal, alongside lots of chanting and manifesting good vibes.

“It kind of feels like the place I’m meant to be,” Feuilly said, “If that makes sense?”

“Totally,” Grantaire gave a smile, “I know exactly what you mean.”

“So this showcase, huh!” Feuilly waved a shoe, “We’ve got two more group meetings and then we’re up.”

“Only _two?_ ” groaned Grantaire.

“Were you not listening to Combeferre?”

Grantaire thought back and remembered being preoccupied by being stood next to Enjolras, aware that every breath he took meant that the skin of their arms almost brushed. It had felt like the infinitesimal gap between them was charged with electricity, scalding hot, and all he could focus on was the desire to close the space, and how unprofessional such a desire was. “Um,” he said, “Was I there?”

Feuilly scrunched his nose. “Physically, yeah. You never left the room.”

“Must have been… thinking about shoes…”

Feuilly scoffed loudly. “Yeah. Shoes… That excuse isn’t going to work forever.”

“I’m _always_ very focused on shoes… my mind never strays from my work and how to be a better shoemaker,” Grantaire said, trying to keep his voice steady.

At that moment, the Old Bishop walked past, heaving a bolt of satin from storage. He looked over them both as they worked extra hard, smiling weakly. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said in his croaky voice, “Keep it up, R.”

As he wandered away, Feuilly and Grantaire both could hardly breathe with the effort it took not to burst into hysterics.

~*~

At around midnight that night, Grantaire was busy sewing, head hunched, shoulders aching numbly. The steady swell of music that soaked the room jittered as Grantaire’s phone buzzed with a text notification.

_‘Hey, R. I’m in your neighbourhood - think we need to talk - is it alright if I come by? -E’_

While Grantaire distinctly disliked Enjolras’ need for ‘a talk,’ he very much liked the idea of seeing Enjolras.

_‘sure,’_ he typed back, _‘come right up x’._

For once, he swore to himself he would be ready: not just tumbled in from a rainstorm, or dishevelled from work, or drenched in the Seine. As ominous as ‘a talk’ sounded, he knew that if he looked his best then he could distract Enjolras from any unpleasantness easily enough.

He changed into one of his nicest shirts - all silken, with billowing sleeves, and gaping open just low enough down his chest to expose a fuzz of dark hair. He fixed his curls, and thinking back to Enjolras’ fingers all tangled within them, dampened his temples - making himself look like he had just been swimming on a summer’s day - waves loose and glinting in the light. Rattling in his bedside table he found an old eyeliner pencil and smudged it around his eyes. The eyeliner trick had been used far too extensively in university, but it hadn’t had much of a comeback in recent years. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he was delighted to see that the effect had worked. He looked hungry and dark eyed, as though he were stitched from shadows and made for back alleyways and danger. He blinked at himself, taken aback by his own confidence. Usually he would be poking at fat, or grimacing at his nose, or avoiding his own gaze all together. With a start, he wondered if his reflection was the version of himself that Enjolras had been seeing all along.

His musing was cut short by the doorbell ringing.

Grantaire hastily flicked on the fairylights in his room, folding his bed back neatly and shoving his work off the sheets. He rushed to open the door, his chest tightening at the sight of Enjolras, as it always did. “Hey,” he said.

Enjolras glanced at him for a long moment, gaze darting from his neckline, to his perfectly coiled hair, and his lined eyes. Grantaire bit back a smile. The dancer, struck speechless for a second, let out a soft little huff, before shaking his head. “Hi,” he replied.

“Come on through,” Grantaire said, leading Enjolras straight to his bedroom. He clunked the door shut behind them both. “So, what brings you here?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, arching his back in a stretch, and feeling an illicit thrill when he noticed Enjolras’ eyes entranced by the sliver of his midriff exposed by the action.

“I’m-” Enjolras cleared his throat, putting his bag down and joining Grantaire to sit. “I’m not just here to…”

Grantaire’s smile turned lazy, he lifted his eyebrows with suggestive ease. “To…?”

Enjolras bit at his lip. “Fuck,” he said, the word falling sharp and visceral from his lovely, rosebud mouth. Enjolras rarely swore, and the sound of it made Grantaire’s nerves rush with adrenaline.

“What an awful shame,” he replied, head falling back onto the pillow, “I was rather looking forward to that.”

Enjolras’ eyes seemed to be undressing Grantaire mentally - starting at the swoop of his collar and sliding down his chest - but he forced his gaze back to Grantaire’s face. Grantaire refused to make it easy, parting his lips, creating the perfect spot to kiss. “Grantaire,” Enjolras said, voice low, “Please. I’m trying to be serious…”

“Why be serious when you could be wild?” Grantaire asked.

“I - I don’t think we can do this anymore…” Enjolras said.

Grantaire almost got whiplash from how quickly he sat bolt upright. “What?” he said, coughing slightly in shock. “I- _what?_ ”

Enjolras looked at him, his golden brows softening into an amused swoop. He reached out and patted Grantaire on the back to stop him coughing, which made Grantaire flush with how tragically he had lost his cool. “Hey, relax,” he said warmly, “This doesn’t need to be overly dramatic.”

Grantaire repositioned himself, draping back over his headboard. “You’re making it _sound_ overly dramatic.”

“I really like you, Grantaire,” he began, looking as though there were a speech locked just behind his lips.

“I really like you, too,” Grantaire interjected, Enjolras’ eyes whipping back to him.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he replied softly, fingers drifting to the edge of Grantaire’s thigh, the weight of his hand soothing and warm, thumb brushing up and down against denim. “I think these last few months have been so good for me… you’ve been really good for me…”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow and a sultry smirk snuck onto his lips.

“I just mean… you’ve taken me out of my own head, a bit. Usually I would be stressing nonstop, and not sleeping properly, and being generally obsessive and unhealthy about it… But…” his voice cracked like a jumping record and a blush drew to his cheeks, “You’ve given me something else to think about. And you’re always so focused on making me feel good, and then I’m focused on making _you_ feel good - and it just sort of feels very lovely to be so equally invested in how we both feel…” he cleared his throat, “Sorry, I’m probably not making too much sense. I’ve just really appreciated how sweet and affectionate you are to me… I’ve never had any trouble sleeping by your side.” His eyes lowered.

Grantaire felt his heart melt, and he wanted to curl up in Enjolras’ arms and let him get the rest he so desperately deserved. “Oh,” he said softly, “Enjolras. You deserve to be worshipped - I have done the bare minimum.”

“Shh,” Enjolras waved him away, “I’m being serious.”

Grantaire quietened, chest strangely tight, anticipating every word before it spilled from Enjolras’ tongue.

“All I am saying, is that now is the time when I _have_ to be focused, and stressed, and a little bit obsessive about it. We’re making our debut in less than two weeks. I would never forgive myself if it went badly because I wasn’t working hard enough.”

A sardonic laugh erupted from Grantaire, “I don’t think that’s ever going to happen. You’re the most determined person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Enjolras said, expelling a harried sigh, “To tell you that I’m being determined. I’m sorry, Grantaire. This is no dismissal of you, or what we’ve had, or anything like that. Please don’t read into this the wrong way… But this can’t continue for now.”

“For now?” Grantaire said, biting at the inside of his lip, “But after the showcase?”

Enjolras nodded, a little hesitant. “I- I don’t know what’s coming next for Les Amis, but I have to keep them as my priority. I don’t want you to feel like you’re just an afterthought, when I’ve got free time…”

“I don’t think that. But I wouldn’t mind being your afterthought, anyway.”

A minute frown set itself on Enjolras’ brow. “I think you deserve better than being my afterthought.”

Grantaire shook his head and sat up, taking Enjolras’ hands in his own. “Enj, look. I’m not having delusions of grandeur. I don’t have some crazy idea that you’re going to give up dancing for me, and we’re going to move to the South, and have a little cottage in a forest, with dogs and bees, and you’d become my househusband and never dance again…”

Enjolras laughed a little. “The cottage bit sounds quite nice.”

“What I mean is that I’m not looking for commitments or declarations. To me, sex is just a way to cultivate connection, and closeness and self-love. People think it always has to be messy, or complicated, or the bridge to _something more…_ but it’s just sex! It’s just human connection, that’s all. And I like connecting with you,” he said, trailing a finger up Enjolras’ leg, “And if it’s just once in a while, and it makes you feel a little less stressed for a bit - I’m happy. I’m not expecting anything from you Enjolras. Nothing at all.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said softly, “Well, in that case. Yes. Let’s wait until after the showcase and then we can resume…”

“Starting… _when?_ ” Grantaire asked coyly.

Enjolras grinned. “I was going to say starting _now._ ”

“But…” Grantaire leaned forwards.

“But…” Enjolras’ gaze was hungry, “I suppose there is room for a _slight_ delay…”

“And you probably wanna get a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s rehearsal, right?” Grantaire teased, fingernails tracing the stitching of Enjolras’ jeans, flicking back and forth across the tautness of his thighs.

“I do,” Enjolras laughed, throwing one knee over Grantaire’s lap, straddling him to the bed. “And, you know, we should make the most of this _slight_ delay in proceedings…”

“Naturally,” Grantaire smiled. “And then no more… for two weeks.”

“No more,” Enjolras agreed.

“Then we have no time to waste,” Grantaire said, looping his hands up into Enjolras’ curls, and pulling them, a little roughly, together.

With Enjolras’ fingers all splayed in the silk of Grantaire’s shirt, popping open buttons one by one, he broke away from the kiss, hips rocking slightly and sending stars into Grantaire’s eyes. “You have no business looking so good,” he said, “How did you expect me to concentrate on anything else?” he said, teeth grazing against Grantaire’s exposed collarbone.

“I didn’t want you to concentrate on anything else,” Grantaire said, eyelids falling shut. 

“How devious of you.” Enjolras kissed down Grantaire’s chest, lips dipping on every mole and birthmark that littered his skin like constellations.

“What can I say?” Grantaire grinned, “I’m a bit of a deviant.”

“God,” Enjolras pulled away, slipping Grantaire’s arms out of his sleeves, “Sometimes I look at you and can’t help but wonder if the concept of beauty was crafted personally for you.”

Grantaire looked at him peculiarly, an unconvinced frown plastered on his face.

Enjolras smiled down at him and pushed his shoulders firmly against the pillows. “Don’t give me that look… You’re always talking about worshipping…”

“Not _always,_ ” Grantaire retorted, shifting a little under the steadfastness of Enjolras’ palm.

“I want to try,” Enjolras said.

“I’ll get very embarrassed and blush like a sweet country boy,” Grantaire warned.

“Good!” Enjolras ghosted his fingers down the sides of Grantaire’s torso, “I want you to feel like you’re the only person alive that matters right now.”

“When you look at me like that,” Grantaire said, hips shifting under the weight and the heat of the moment, “I already feel that way.”

“Patience, patience,” Enjolras chided, stopping Grantaire’s hand in its tracks as it reached up to grab at Enjolras’ shirt, “This is the last time. We should make it last.”

A frustrated huff involuntarily escaped from his chest, as Enjolras’ hands moved treacherously slowly, down, and down, bumping over bellybutton, then hipbones, then the tight waistband of Grantaire’s jeans. His lips followed the trajectory, kissing down roses of blush across his shoulders, and collarbone, and ribcage. After a lifetime of this, Grantaire could bear it no more. “Please, Enjolras,” he whispered, tone reverent.

“You sound a little more speechless than usual…”

“Enjolras, I swear to God…” Grantaire groaned, not in the right frame of mind for their usual back-and-forth teasing. “Being this much of a tease should be illegal.”

“Hm,” Enjolras smiled, fingers tracing the zipper of his jeans, unzipping so slowly that as each zip tooth unhooked, Grantaire could feel it shudder through his skin. “Not quite as speechless as I hoped.”

“What?” Grantaire felt woozy on anticipation.

Enjolras dropped close, lips brushing over neck and gentle against Grantaire’s ear. “I don’t think you’re ready until the only thing your pretty mouth can say is my name…”

Grantaire’s eyes rolled back at the sensation of Enjolras’ fingers climbing beneath his waistband. “Oh…” he tried to think of a witty response, but found his brain empty from all that was not the golden-haired dancer on top of him. “Enjolras…” he managed, a heat creeping into his cheeks.

“That’s more like it,” Enjolras said, voice a touch breathy. “I want you to remember this for the next two weeks… I want you to remember this at every rehearsal, when I’m hot, and flushed and breathless, and you can’t have me…”

Grantaire writhed. “That’s going to do no good for my productivity,” he choked out, desperate for Enjolras’ hands to connect with his skin.

“I want the memory of this to keep you up at night, because I won’t be able to…”

A rush unlike anything Grantaire had ever felt before crashed into all of his senses. He had lost all power of speech, beside a yearning babble of Enjolras’ name.

“Will it drive you crazy?” Enjolras laughed, the whisper of air creating goosebumps across Grantaire’s arm. “Oh, gorgeous, sweet Grantaire. Sent from the Gods to distract even the most industrious man. How could a mere mortal, such as I, resist?”

Grantaire felt as though he had left the realm of mortals, and had entered a hedonistic sort of heaven. “Oh my God, Enjolras… please… I- I’m… I need you to…”

“Touch you?” Enjolras said, fingers curling into place. He smiled sweetly against Grantaire’s lips, his mouth honeyed and impossible to resist. “As you wish…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh I'm BLUSHING. I think this is the raunchiest chapter I've ever written (lol) (it's probably tame enough to be a PG film, but ya know smut is not my strong suit) BUT I hope you love it!
> 
> Éponine is such a JOY to write. she is just the perfect mix of being ridiculous and wild, and being too wise for her own good, I LOVE HER.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Let me know ALL your thoughts - hearing what you think is the ULTIMATE highlight of my week! lots of love! <3


	26. Le Papillon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbyes are so much more difficult when the next meeting seems achingly distant. 
> 
> Grantaire cannot focus on anything but his lover.

Grantaire was getting used to being woken before the sun had risen.

“Good morning, lover,” Enjolras whispered in the darkness of the room, “I’ve got to get to rehearsals. Sorry for waking you.”

“No need for apologies - this is the last time I’ll see you in my bedroom for a long time, so I’m happy to be woken.”

“It’s just two weeks.”

“And yet you’ve made it seem like a lifetime,” Grantaire replied, stretching out, blissful and still a little high on the night before. “So… go. Go and be determined and focused…” he let the covers slide off his chest, “I hope I won’t be a distraction in rehearsals.”

Enjolras’ lips pressed together to hide his smile. “Well I hope I don’t distract _you_ from your shoemaking…” he said, arching his back as he yawned.

“It would be a terrible shame if we were to distract each other…”

Enjolras leant an inch forwards before pulling back and shaking his head. “You’re already being a distraction. Stop making this hard.”

Grantaire shrugged, overly innocent. “I can’t help it if I unintentionally distract you, Enjolras. Perhaps you need to work on that self-restraint a little more…” he said, feeling the duvet furrow across his hipbone.

Enjolras’ eyes flickered down for a moment before fixing Grantaire with a strong, unwavering glance. “I’m not distracted at all,” he said, “And I won’t be for the next two weeks.”

“We’ll see…” Grantaire laughed, leaning up to press a kiss to Enjolras’ mouth. “Go on, lover,” he said lowly, “I’ll see you soon.”

Enjolras departed from the room with one last, heavy look back at Grantaire.

Grantaire groaned and lay down again, trying to return to sleep. A minute crawled by so slowly it felt like an hour, and he thought ahead to the long stretch of minutes that would make up two weeks. With an itching frustration that coiled in his muscles, he gave up any attempts of dozing off, and sat at his desk, hand stitching by the light that weakly leached through the curtains.

~*~

As the next few days rolled by, life continued as normal. Whenever Grantaire felt his mind flicker to Enjolras, he poured himself into his craft - if only so that he could prove that he himself was the more distracting of the two.

Nights at home were increasingly populated by Marius and Cosette, who both seemed perfectly content to sleep on the couches night after night. Grantaire watched enviously as Éponine and Cosette worked on their dancing form, palms close and intimate - lifting legs, shifting the way an arm was held, or a foot turned out. Cosette - though in an identical position to Enjolras - seemed to have moments free to curl on the sofa, sandwiched between Éponine and Marius, giggling away at some old sitcom. Whenever a thought like that crossed Grantaire’s mind, he grumpily left the room and found something to distract him.

Moments of yearning happened far more often than he would have liked. He tried to play it off as nothing more than a lust for skin-on-skin, that any body next to his own would satisfy the ache - but, in the quiet moments alone, he knew that were not the case. Like in the early morning, when he stretched out, expecting to feel the soft clatter of sleep-gentle knuckles against shoulder, or when he was at work, wondering if the buzzer would ring, and he would descend the spiral stairs to find Enjolras all burnished gold amidst the oak corridor. Such feather-light, affectionate thoughts pissed Grantaire off. He was not used to the soft whispers of longing that had crept in, and saturated his every thought. In prior flings, Grantaire had had the utmost respect for his partners - thinking them marvellous, and beautiful, and desirable - but the desire had been segregated to a more animalistic portion of his brain - never seeping into his life whilst he was at work, or in an empty bed as he woke.

He spent half the week longing for a rehearsal so he could see Enjolras again, but as it crept closer dreaded it more and more - the prospect of a professional meeting akin to torture. The idea of the soft brush of lips against cheek the only contact they could have seemed grievously unfair.

Nevertheless, through all his unsubtle moping and pining, he had managed to be ultra productive - a whole village worth of shoes stacked in his room. There were at least sixty pairs, varying wildly in colour.

Cosette would sometimes watch him as he worked. She chattered, her lilting voice dipping and soaring, lark-like. She laughed easily, and asked questions that peeled at Grantaire’s curiosity, often sending his thoughts down paths they rarely went down. She sat, stretching out her long legs, bashing one of Grantaire’s shoes viciously on the floor. The first time he had seen it happen, he’d been aghast that all of his hard work was being smashed to smithereens, but Enjolras had explained they needed to be softened to be danced in. The method for softening a dance shoe involved such monstrosities as slamming them in doors, standing on them, and general pummelling.

“How are you feeling about the showcase?” Grantaire asked, between the loud slap of hard wooden block against his floor.

“I think we’re ready,” Cosette smiled, crunching the sole beneath her entire body weight.

“You seem pretty chilled out about it.”

“Yeah,” she said, “I’ve been doing dance showcases since I was about three years old.” She thought, her eyes drifting to the ceiling. “I mean, I know this one is really important… maybe the most important showcase I’ve ever been a part of, but… it does no good to think about that.” She flexed her toes and bent forwards, leaning on her elbows. “How are _you_ feeling about it?”

He looked up from his stitching, rolling his lips between his teeth. “I’m just a shoemaker. It isn’t the same.”

She shook her head with a wise, rosy smile. “It _is_ the same. When it’s like this, it’s the same.”

“Well… I guess it does feel different than making shoes for anyone else. I usually never met dancers, and I spoke to their agents and costume departments, and shipped off shoes in a box. It’s different, you’re right. But… still… My work will be over before the showcase begins.”

“Ah,” Cosette said warmly, “I’m sure Enjolras will want you backstage in case of emergency.”

Grantaire lifted an amused brow.

“You know,” she said, “A shoe breaks, the paint is peeling off, Joly’s forgotten his leg, or Enjolras gets pre-show butterflies…”

“Enjolras gets butterflies?”

“Giant ones!” Cosette said, stretching her arms wide, “He’s usually so composed that you would never know… but gosh, before a show he gets all tongue-tied and paces around, talking more with his hands than his mouth.”

“ _Really?”_ Grantaire found it hard to imagine a flustered, frenetic Enjolras.

“Trust me. I’ve seen it a million times. And then _just_ before we’re due onstage, Combeferre says something wise, Courfeyrac says something ridiculous, and Enjolras suddenly just straightens out like he was never stressed at all, and then he goes all quiet and fiery… and then… well… that’s when the magic starts!”

“That’s very endearing,” Grantaire said.

“I would use the word _intimidating_ before _endearing…_ But, who am I to judge?” Cosette laughed her songbird’s giggle, “Where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him around in a while.”

“Who?” Grantaire cleared his throat, “Enjolras?” He looked down at the stitch he had just missed. “Yeah, we’re just keeping it lowkey until after the showcase. No big deal.”

Cosette tilted her head and fixed him with a long look. After a pregnant pause she said, “Oh?”

He laughed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She pouted her bottom lip. “No reason!” she said brightly, “Just… Well… I’m surprised. You couldn’t keep your hands off each other!”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Cosette!” he said, scandalised.

“What?” she grinned, “I think you’re incredibly cute together! I figured out from the first time I met you,” she leaned over and pinched his cheek, “You are _not_ very subtle, my friend.”

“The _first_ time?” Grantaire squinted, “The first time you and I met I barely knew how to pronounce Enjolras’ name.”

“That didn’t stop you from staring at him the whole time,” Cosette grinned cheekily. “Well. We’ve got rehearsal tomorrow. I’ll tell him you’ve been thinking about him.”

“Don’t,” Grantaire shook his head, “I’m not thinking about him! We are both being incredibly professional and not thinking about each other at all.”

Cosette gave him a weighty look.

“I’m not!” Grantaire nudged her shoulder, “Anyway! What about you? What’s going on here?”

“Where?” Her eyes opened in comical innocence.

“You, Éponine and Marius.”

Cosette shrugged, her cheeks turning rosy. “Nothing is going on. We’re just friends. It’s nice.”

“Is that all?”

She turned even pinker. “Um…” she looked around the room, as though Marius or Éponine could have somehow magically materialised. “It can be a little intense at times. We just all got really close really quickly, and you know what that can be like. It brings up a lot of… intense emotions.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow and sat back. “Well. If you’re not going to divulge the details, I won’t pry…”

“Fine!” Cosette threw her hands up, “We kind of… we kissed.”

“You and Marius?”

“No, all of us.”

_“At the same time?”_

She stretched so her face was hidden against the floor. “…Yeah?” When she sat back upright, her face was scarlet.

“I can’t believe Éponine didn’t tell me!” Grantaire said, a hand at his collarbone.

“Don’t make a big deal of it, R. It’s just a kiss.”

Grantaire grinned. “I see how it is,” he said, teasing, “You all can ask a million questions about Enjolras and I, but I have to ignore this amazingly juicy gossip?”

She laughed, covering her cheeks with her palms. “It’s honestly nothing,” she said, the sole of her shoe crunching with a loud crack, “Kissing is just nice!”

Grantaire gave a sigh, thinking of how long it had been since his lips had brushed against Enjolras’. “Yeah, it is.”

Cosette smiled, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “Don’t look so sad,” she kissed his cheek, “It won’t be long, now.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Grantaire said with a sigh.

“He’s probably thinking about you just as much… more, probably! He’s probably counting down the days until the showcase… for all the wrong reasons!”

Grantaire smiled. “Thanks, Cosette.”

She beamed at him and got up, lifting her slightly abused shoes by the ribbons. “I’d better head off… I’ve got to slam these in some doors before rehearsal…”

Grantaire winced.

“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry shoes!” She waved goodbye and left him to work alone. The sound of repetitive door slamming, followed by three bouts of laughter, falling into soft, lazy chatter, made Grantaire feel, all at once, very alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> g a s p a marius/ep/cosette trio?? wHo WoUld HAvE gUeSsEd IT? also poooor grantaire just straight up YEARNING, I'm sorry to do this to such a lovestruck boy but it HAS to be done.   
> and that showcase (and thus, the end of this fic) is coming so close so quickly! UGH I love them too much to leave them behind, but it won't be long now :O 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Please leave a comment to let me know your thoughts - they always make me immeasurably overjoyed! <333


	27. Romantique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A study into how long two lovers can last in each other's company before all their best laid plans go askew.

“Babe,” said Éponine lazily, jolting Grantaire’s shoulders as they sat side by side on the Metro. “You’re looking a little pale.”

Grantaire tutted and rolled his eyes.

“A bit shaky, too… how are those Enjolras withdrawal symptoms?”

“Ha, ha. Your wit astounds me, Éponine,” Grantaire said dryly.

She smiled wryly at him. “Only teasing. You do look absurdly hot for a shoemaker’s rehearsal meeting, though.”

“So shoemakers aren’t allowed to be hot?”

“Of course you’re _allowed_. I wouldn’t have it any other way, my love,” she pinched his arm, “A certain _someone_ isn’t going to be able to tear his eyes away.”

“Ép. You _know_ we’re keeping our distance until after the showcase…”

“What’s with the eyeliner, then?” she winked.

Grantaire shook his head and looked away, wordless. She was right, of course. The eyeliner was deliberately applied to be distracting.

“I know you too well, my love,” she said, unable to hide her grin.

~*~

Running a few minutes late, Éponine and Grantaire sprinted up the five flights of stairs, and barrelled through the corridors, sneaking into the back of the studio, flushed pink and out of breath.

Cosette and Enjolras stood in front of the mirrors, her hands circled around his waist, his left leg lifted behind him, his right balanced on the tips of his toes. Cosette’s arms tensed, the strength in her biceps straining as she prepared to lift him - but as Éponine and Grantaire clattered into the room, both dancers lost their focus and wobbled in position.

“Hey!” Courfeyrac clicked his fingers, “Focus, focus, guys!” He spread his arms wide. “Only one week left and we haven’t mastered this lift yet.”

Enjolras shook himself out.

“Sorry to be a distraction,” Grantaire said, because he truly could not help himself.

Enjolras’ eyes lifted, dark and bright like bottled midnight. He blinked for a moment, his lips parting in silent protest. He shook his head, infinitesimally - watching Grantaire’s mouth curve in a badly concealed smirk. “Perhaps our shoemaker should learn to keep track of time,” he said, gaze still trapped on Grantaire. “You’re late…”

A tension hung heavy in the air, and Grantaire was the first to drop his stare. “It won’t happen again,” he said, knowing full well that the next time they would meet would be the night of the showcase - and Grantaire would not wish to miss a second of that evening.

“Good,” said Enjolras, after a pause. The tiniest hint of a smile curled at his lips and he turned back to Cosette, falling back into the right place. Unfortunately for Grantaire, this movement put the small of Enjolras’ back in perfect vision, the soft dip of muscle and bone where Grantaire loved to rest his hand. He could almost feel the curve of warm, velveteen skin beneath his palm. He looked away, staring intently at Cosette’s shoes instead. 

The rest of rehearsal traipsed by in a similar sort of divine torture. Grantaire tried to put his utmost focus into the posters, desperately forcing his eyes to stay tracked on his pencil strokes - but then the dancers would laugh at a light-hearted joke from Courfeyrac, or all move as one - and Grantaire’s gaze would spiral right back to Enjolras. Enjolras, still so gorgeous and golden in his skin-tight ballet leggings, and unendingly long legs and altogether too much grace, poise and elegance.

It didn’t help that Feuilly was seemingly trying not to laugh at Grantaire’s anguish throughout the entire practice.

Far too quickly, the dancers broke away from formation and were chattering and lingering in a loose line for their final shoe fittings. By this stage - after hours of sleepless nights, and stolen moments during work - Feuilly and Grantaire had managed to finish multiple pairs for every dancer. Now was the only chance for any last minute alterations before the showcase. 

Grantaire worked his way through the line with speedy efficiency. His hands measured and tightened, tying up laces and checking the fit. The usual friendly banter was somewhat lesser than usual, with a thick atmosphere of anticipation lingering on everyone’s shoulders.

“Darling, R,” Jehan said, during their fitting, “You look troubled.”

“Do I?” Grantaire said, instructing Jehan to stand en pointe.

“Tragically so, I’m afraid,” they said. “What’s on your mind?”

Grantaire’s traitorous eyes flickered to Enjolras, stood at the back of the queue, drinking from a reusable glass bottle, his chest heaving a little in breathlessness. Grantaire felt himself turn a gentle shade of pink. “Pre-showcase jitters?” he said.

Jehan sneakily glanced around, and they turned back to Grantaire with a knowing smile. “I see… Well. It’ll be over before you know it… And that will be cause for worthy celebration,” they said, winking over-dramatically. After a pause, they added, “If you follow what I’m inferring…”

“Alright, Jehan,” Grantaire said with a grin, “Your shoes are perfect, my friend.”

“Course they are,” Jehan beamed, “Made by an angel.” They slipped the shoes off and ambled back into the cluster of dancers discussing the upcoming showcase.

Before Grantaire was ready, Enjolras stepped forwards, and smiled that familiar smile that made Grantaire’s chest ache like it had been crushed by a thousand bricks. “Hi,” Grantaire said, trying with all of his might not to sound winded.

Enjolras sat before him, quickly lacing his slippers. “Hey,” he said.

“Your ribbon is twisted,” Grantaire said, letting a finger tuck against the warm skin of Enjolras’ calf, and unfold a rumple in the satin.

Enjolras’ mouth curled. “No it wasn’t,” he said softly, reaching down to his leg, making their hands brush chastely. “You’re trying to distract me.” He said the words all low and teasing, and they jolted right into the base of Grantaire’s spine.

He grinned. “Is it working?”

Enjolras winked. “Any last minute alterations needed?”

Grantaire surveyed the shoes, shaping them up and squinting. “Yeah,” he blew a heavy sigh that sent one the curls on his forehead spiralling away, “I think they need more work than we thought…”

Enjolras instantly tightened. “Why?” he said, a touch sharply.

He gave Enjolras’ ankle a squeeze, “Just teasing. They look great. If we _did_ need to make some alterations, I’m free tonight…”

Enjolras’ chest sagged in relief. “You’re terrible,” he said fondly. Grantaire made some final measurements, and the silence that spilled between them felt heavy. “I’ve missed you,” Enjolras added, making any weight that existed feel feather-light.

A smile broke onto the canvas of Grantaire’s face, and he dropped his hands - his work on Enjolras’ shoes finished too soon. “I’ve missed you, too,” he said, shaking a few ribbon cuttings off his lap.

Enjolras leant forwards, plucking a notepad of sketches from Grantaire’s knees, his fingers brushing a moment too long on Grantaire’s thighs. Instead of sitting upright, he stayed tilted towards Grantaire, their heads drawn together like magnets. Grantaire could feel the flutter of breath against his face, smell the sweet coconut scent of Enjolras’ shampoo, and sense the heat radiating off his skin.

“Everything looks like it’s in order,” Enjolras said, eyes intent on the notebook. Grantaire knew that the page was only filled with figures and drafted lines that would have meaning to no one else but him. That it meant Enjolras was only lingering so close simply to linger close.

“Ahead of schedule, you could say,” Grantaire replied. “We’ll have plenty of time to spare…”

“Yo, mon ange!” Courfeyrac hollered from the other side of the room. Enjolras suddenly sat bolt upright, the notepad unceremoniously dropped onto Grantaire’s legs, his halo of hair bobbing in the sharp movement, and the space between them became so wide that Grantaire would have to reach to touch him. “Sorry to disrupt, but Cosette needs you for this lift…”

“Right, of course,” Enjolras said, looking dazed. His eyes dropped back to Grantaire. “Um,” he said, “Sorry, um… let’s come back to this.”

Grantaire felt thoroughly well-achieved, when Enjolras rushed off, looking entirely distracted.

~*~

Combeferre took control of the final few minutes of the meeting, discussing all things practical. Unfortunately, Grantaire heard absolutely nothing of what he said, because he was far too busy engaged in an intense stare-off with Enjolras. They both seemed to be sizing one another up, figuring out the best way to make their paths intercept, and warring with whether or not it would be a good idea for them to talk. Grantaire tilted his head, Enjolras’ eyes narrowed, his gaze drifting purposefully upwards towards the ceiling. Grantaire looked up, then back to Enjolras and nodded.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre said.

“Hm?” Enjolras’ eyes snapped wide open, “Oh, sorry. Yes. Great work, everyone. I’ll see everyone this time next week for dress rehearsal, and I’ll see all my dancers tomorrow morning.”

“What about the costumes?” Combeferre pressed.

“The costumes?”

“Like I just asked…” Combeferre gave Enjolras a tight-lipped glance. “What are we doing this week for costumes?”

“Oh, of course. Well, Boss has done some great pieces for such a short amount of time… And Cosette and I have a bunch of costumes in storage. If everyone could bring in any clothes that may work tomorrow, and we’ll reassess. Thanks for reminding me, ‘Ferre.”

Combeferre’s lips melted into a subtle smile, and Enjolras shook his head.

“Anyway, let’s head out. We should have been out five minutes ago, so let’s be quiet and considerate of other rehearsals… Okay, thanks guys!”

Enjolras muttered something briefly to Combeferre and Courfeyrac and slipped out of the room, while the majority of dancers were stretching out and bundling into warmer clothes.

Éponine sidled up to Grantaire, resting her forehead on his shoulder. “I can’t believe the showcase is so damn soon.”

“Yeah, neither,” said Grantaire, glancing at the door.

Éponine stepped back and rolled her eyes. “Bloody knew it. Go on, then.”

“Huh?”

“Darling, I sincerely hope you aren’t hoping to make a fortune from poker. The blush on your cheeks is _literally_ spelling out E-N-J-O-”

Grantaire interrupted with a laugh. “Never been into poker, so I think I’ll be alright. See you later, Ép!”

She sucked her teeth and he waved his fingers, volleying a handful of farewells around the room before slinking up the stairs.

He had never been on the sixth floor, so he wandered through the corridor somewhat blindly, glancing through glass panes on windows.

“Looking for something?” came a voice from behind him.

Grantaire spun, his face settling into a grin at the sight of Enjolras. “No. I was looking for someone.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I heard there was a really famous ballerina around here… Thought I’d have a look. Maybe ask for an autograph… or a selfie.”

“Maybe I could introduce you. What’s this ballerina like?”

Grantaire laughed, letting his eyes trail purposefully up the length of Enjolras’ torso. “He’s very handsome.”

“Oh, I think I know who you mean,” Enjolras leant back against a door, his eyes darting up to the room sign. “I think he’s in room eleven…” he pushed with his shoulders, leading them both into room eleven.

“I was under the impression he was really busy at the moment…” Grantaire said, drawing out his words.

“He’s very busy… but he also has less willpower than he thought he did…”

Grantaire laughed. “Is that so?”

“God, Grantaire, I’ve been driving myself a little bit crazy thinking about you.”

The feeling of his heart dropping like a stone into his stomach, and all of his blood rushing to his head, made for a potentially deadly mix, but Grantaire just smiled, following Enjolras into the room, both ebbing in and out of touching distance. “It’s only been a week,” Grantaire said, knowing exactly how Enjolras felt.

“And a week is seven days, and seven lots of twenty-four hours, and seven lots of twenty-four lots of sixty minutes, and that feels like a really long time,” Enjolras laughed, “And I didn’t even mention how many seconds that was!”

“Too many seconds to count…” Grantaire paused, “And to think we’ve got to live an equal amount of seconds again before we can touch…”

“Longer, probably…” Enjolras said, “There will be hours of mingling after the showcase…”

“Well,” he gave a dramatic sigh, “I shall set an alarm for _all_ the seconds that will pass before our fingertips brush…” he hovered his fingertips dangerously close to Enjolras’.

Enjolras gave a groan and looked at their hands. With a breath, he shook his head. “Let’s give up.”

“What?”

“Let’s give up,” Enjolras surged his palms forward and connected their hands. “Isn’t this what being young is all about? Screwing up good intentions, and screwing around?”

“Enjolras, you’re looking a little _distracted_ …” Grantaire said, voice lilting.

“Don’t try and act cute,” Enjolras grinned, “Come on, follow me.”

“To your place?” said Grantaire, who most certainly didn’t need telling twice. He was almost jogging to keep up with Enjolras’ long stride. Instead of taking a left and descending to the first floor, Enjolras began to march up the stairs.

“No,” he said, not stopping until there were no more steps left to climb.

“What…?” Grantaire looked at him oddly. He glanced around the top attic floor - a creaky wooden floor scarred by shoes, a dingy fire escape door, and gum pressed into the walls. It was hardly the most ideal place for a tryst. “Very romantic, Enjolras…”

Pressing down hard on the fire escape bar, the doors opened with a heavy clunk. Enjolras spread his arms wide. “I think this is my favourite spot in all of Paris.”

Grantaire tore his eyes from Enjolras’ face for one moment, and felt awe well up inside him. He felt minuscule against the universe, and young, and ancient, and finite and forever. Paris was stretched out like a lover, all bright lights and hazy glows. It was a city made for lovers and dreamers, and Enjolras and Grantaire fit perfectly like interlinked fingers.

Walking to the edge of the rooftop, Grantaire looked down upon the golden blink of the city’s eye, the rush of blurred, freckle-sized cars. If Grantaire had been able to deny it before, his weak refusals to listen to his heart were drowned out. Amidst all of the wonder of one of the most beautiful cities in the world, Grantaire wanted to look at just one thing; just one man. Glancing to Enjolras, circled in light, Biblical and magnificent, Grantaire finally knew the meaning behind the cliché of shouting love from the rooftops.

“Enjolras…” he said, voice so tiny against the sky.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Enjolras leant his chin upon Grantaire’s shoulder, arms heavy around his waist.

He wanted to bask in the moment, and not let his mouth utter the honey-poisoned words, which would likely send Enjolras spinning away.

“Enjolras…” he tried again.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Enjolras nipped at the back of his ear, the intensity of feeling it sent charging through Grantaire’s nerves, far too strong to be caused by a mortal mouth.

“I… I’m afraid I’m in love with you.”

Enjolras broke away, leaving Grantaire’s skin cold. “Wh- what?” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire sighed, “I know you’re far too busy for a lovestruck shoemaker… I just couldn’t not tell you.”

“You… you love me? I thought you didn’t fall in love…”

“I know, right! I’ve been having a strict talking to myself, but it truly won’t go away…” Grantaire joked, hoping to dispel the strange weight between them. “It really isn’t the most convenient of feelings…”

“Oh, be quiet for a moment, R,” Enjolras said, a peculiarly excitable laugh caught in his throat, “I’m _obviously_ totally, stupidly in love with you, too.”

“ _You are?_ ” Grantaire jolted back, “Where was the obvious part?”

“Hmm…” Enjolras mused, trailing his fingers up Grantaire’s arms, his face shining with a moonlit beam, “Where to begin? Maybe _every moment_ that you’re in my presence?”

“I didn’t notice,” Grantaire smiled, “Maybe because I was trying really hard not to look desperately in love with you.”

Enjolras laughed, and his lingering touches curled up to Grantaire’s jawline, pulling them together in perfect harmony. The sensation of their lips touching was electric enough to power countries, and it wasn’t clear if that was caused by the week apart, or because those lips had just spilled confessions of love. The dam that Grantaire had put in front of his true feelings came crashing down. They curled up within each other like nesting dolls, so enraptured by a kiss that the city dropped away. Breaking apart for breath, Grantaire looked out across Paris.

“Hang on,” he said, tone light. “One second, I just realised I need to do something.” He pulled away, stepping back to the edge of the rooftop once more.

“What?” Enjolras said, lips bitten pink. He kept a few fingers curled around Grantaire’s, as though it would hurt to separate.

Grantaire gasped a breath and threw his head back. “I’M IN LOVE!” he yelled, voice echoing from the pits of his stomach and crashing through the night sky.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras said, giggly and drunk on Grantaire’s silliness.

“Being a coming-of-age, teen movie cliché,” Grantaire grinned, “It feels _amazing!”_ With a tug, he pulled Enjolras up to the edge. “Careful,” he said, still gripping tight to his hand, “I have a feeling that falling off here would have slightly worse implications than falling into the Seine.”

Enjolras looked up to where the stars should be, behind the fog of light pollution and lilac-brown cloud. “I’M SO IN LOVE!” he shouted, eyes wide open and shining, as though he expected the heavens to shout back. “You’re right. It does feel amazing. Let’s stay up here forever, and scream it until we lose our voices.”

“But then I wouldn’t be able to hear you talk,” Grantaire said, “And _that_ would be a tragedy. And… we can’t stay up here forever… doesn’t somebody come up here to lock the studios?”

Enjolras’ face broke into a grin, his teeth biting back his temptation. “No,” he said, tone rich and smokily seductive. He hopped off the ledge onto the roof, and pulled his arms out of his long coat, dropping it carefully so it covered a human sized patch of the cold concrete. “There aren’t any cameras, either…” he reached for Grantaire and pulled him down, “It pays to be nice to security… they tell you the best secrets.”

Grantaire laughed, his breath hiccuping as Enjolras dragged him even further, until they both bumped into a seating position atop the coat, legs all tangled together. “I love you,” he mumbled against Enjolras’ lips, trailing his mouth across the planes of Enjolras’ neck.

Enjolras suddenly froze, and pushed at Grantaire’s chest. “No, R… Don’t…”

Grantaire tensed, shooting back, unwinding all limbs, eyes wide. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Shh,” Enjolras said, dragging him close again, “I don’t want you to stop. I just can’t show up to rehearsal tomorrow with lovebites all down my chest…”

“Oh…” Grantaire began to giggle, “Oh! Of course!”

Enjolras, also laughing, nuzzled into Grantaire’s shoulder. “So, waistband or below, for biting, okay?”

“Waistband or below…” Grantaire drifted his fingers down to the skin-tight dance leggings, “Enjolras, you minx. These leggings leave _nowhere_ to kiss…”

“I wouldn’t say _nowhere…”_

All bound up in hysteria, and the high of adrenaline and affection, they laughed against each other’s lips and whispered love upon every inch of skin, and the world felt perfectly tailored for the two of them to love within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmgggggggg they SAID IT! join me in my screaming! aaaaahh don't I just LOVE a dreaaaaamy setting - smh I can't really (lightly) make fun of those teen coming of age cliche novels if I write my love confessions on romantic paris rooftops with high stakes and sweethearts IN LOVE - it's cheesy but I LOVE IT.
> 
> this chapter literally has ALL of my fave tropes - lingering close, pining, the INHERENT romanticism of brushing fingertips, L O V E C O N F E S S I O N S, dreamy settings, feeling small against the universe but a kiss feeling electric enough to power a city, W O W I'm such a sucker for all of the above. therefore this is definitely like one of my fave chapters from the WHOLE FIC. I hope you love it tooo!!!!
> 
> as always! thank you so so so so much for reading - nothing keeps my day bright like reading and responding to comments - gonna be sappy here but to think that people are reading my words and enjoying them literally makes me the happiest gal on earth! please let me know all your thoughts and let's bask in the lOVE! <33


	28. Ouvert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two lovers on the roof in the cold, with not enough time until the showcase.

Grantaire could not get a wink of sleep.

Enjolras’ coat, while extremely dashing, made for a very poor mattress. The sleeve seams and the buttons dug into his back, the cold of the concrete leaching up into his skin. It was chilly, but the heat from Enjolras made sure he did not freeze.

Enjolras seemed to be having no such trouble sleeping. His torso was sprawled across Grantaire’s, his cheek pressed upon Grantaire’s breastbone, hair fanning out and tickling skin. With each inhale, Grantaire felt the rumble of life sync between their chests, their breaths ebbing and flowing together.

One night of sleep was easily sacrificed for the sensation of Enjolras against him, and the softly excavated space of love they had dug out the previous evening. Grantaire would happily sacrifice all of his sleep and comfort for nights full of Enjolras.

Hours rolled by, drifting in and out of conciousness, until the sun bleached the sky a pale, worn out blue, and Enjolras finally awoke.

“God, it’s cold,” was the first thing he said, his voice sleep-worn and husky.

Grantaire circled his arms around Enjolras’ shoulders, dipping his nose into Enjolras’ collarbone. The dancer gave a soft squeal of surprise.

“Your nose is like ice!”

“Let me steal your body-warmth… I’m freezing.”

Enjolras reached up, cupping Grantaire’s cheeks with his warm palms. “God, you are. This was a dumb idea, wasn’t it?”

“Dumb but sexy,” Grantaire yawned, “AKA my aesthetic.” He curled into the warmth as much as possible, “Maybe I’ll fade away and die of consumption. The dumbest, yet sexiest death.”

“Tuberculosis isn’t sexy…” Enjolras continued to warm Grantaire’s face with his hands.

“Moulin Rouge told me otherwise,” Grantaire said, feigning a weak voice.

“Right,” Enjolras snorted, “Get up. We can’t have our shoemaker dying of tuberculosis one week before the showcase.” He pulled Grantaire up, who just groaned in protest. “Come on… let’s do some star jumps to warm up.”

“I’m not doing star jumps at five in the morning,” Grantaire said, flopping limply in Enjolras’ grip, “I don’t know who you thought you fell in love with, but he definitely doesn’t do star jumps. Especially not before midday.”

“Okay, we’ll dance, then,” Enjolras clasped their hands together, making them both sway. He hummed a lilting melody under his breath, his breath warm against Grantaire’s forehead. R let his head rest against Enjolras’ firm chest, letting himself be led. “I love dancing with you,” Enjolras said.

“It’s nice,” Grantaire said, his feet fumbling a little, “But I’m not very good.”

“Ah,” Enjolras beamed, “It’s the enthusiasm that counts.” He stretched out his arm, and then curled Grantaire up against his torso. They swayed together, Enjolras’ vocalisations hitching and jumping out of time and tune.

“I’m feeling warmer,” Grantaire swiped a thumb across the curve of Enjolras’ waist. There was a pause. “Do you know when the studios open?”

Enjolras grimaced. “Nine.”

“So… in four hours?”

“Well… three and three quarter hours.”

Grantaire’s nose scrunched up and he snorted into Enjolras’ collar. “What are we going to do for three and three quarter hours on a freezing rooftop in the middle of Paris?”

“I think I’ve got a crossword in my bag,” Enjolras joked. “Or… we could…?”

“Try sudoku?” Grantaire whispered, crushing a smirk between his teeth.

“I was thinking something a little more _fun_ …”

“Ooh, a wordsearch?”

“Oh my God,” Enjolras giggled, “You’re ridiculous.”

Grantaire sat, leaning one arm over the edge of the rooftop, his back pressed against the barrier. His face split into a blissful smile. “But you love me.”

“I do…” Enjolras agreed, leaning down to brush his velveteen lips across Grantaire’s forehead, slow and sweet, making every connection of skin feel like the first time they had touched. He eventually sat, tangling a hand in Grantaire’s shirt, a thumb tracing the contours of Grantaire’s lips. He slowly, achingly slowly leant forwards, the space between them dissolving into nothingness. And, _Jesus,_ it was nice to kiss. Nice to be close and warm and held, and a history full of poets would agree with Grantaire thatit was the nicest thing in the world to be loved.

~*~

The days that passed were filled with lots of practical things that Grantaire was wholly unequipped for. He found himself at various printer shops across Paris, searching for the whoever could print out flyers and posters the quickest. Over a period of three days, Combeferre and Courfeyrac became the most frequently used contacts in his phone, though often his calls intended for Courfeyrac would be picked up by Combeferre, and his calls for Combeferre would be stolen into Courfeyrac’s hands.

With all of the dancers at rehearsals, he had to lug a case full of promotional equipment to Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta’s apartment, which was on the other side of the city.

Bossuet, who looked as harried as Grantaire felt, ushered him in. They laid the posters across the table.

With a sigh of relief, Bossuet bumped their fists together. “We did it, man,” he grinned. “We’re ready… with two days to spare.”

“Oh my God, is it in two days?” Grantaire grimaced. “I’ve got so much to do!”

“Don’t stress, R,” said Bossuet, giving Grantaire’s shoulder a friendly rub, “It’s just a half an hour slot… save your stress for whatever mad idea Enjolras has next.”

“Oh no. What has he got planned next?” Grantaire asked, with a shade of horror in his voice.

“I don’t know,” Boss said with a full-bellied laugh, “But knowing Enjolras, it’s going to be bloody ridiculous. Anyway, you’re his prized shoemaker now, so you’re in it for the long haul. You’ll need to get used to it.”

“I didn’t think of that,” Grantaire said, rather glumly.

“Too busy thinking of the post show perks with our fearless leader?” he said with a wink.

Grantaire shook his head in awe. “How does everyone know?” he complained, half-heartedly.

“Oh, was I not meant to know?” Bossuet shrugged, “I thought it was common knowledge.”

“Apparently it is.”

“Anyway, I get you, man,” he rolled his eyes fondly, “I _live_ with Joly and Chetta and I swear I haven’t seen them in weeks. Just a few more days, though… It’ll be worth it. Post-show sex is the best thing on the planet.”

Grantaire choked on his tea and spluttered a laugh. “Thank God I’m not the only one thinking about it.”

Bossuet clapped him on the back. “Definitely not. Performance nights are like the highlights of my year. The flexibility? The adrenaline? The emotional high? Man, I’ve done a lot of drugs, and they don’t compare.”

Grantaire gave Bossuet an amused look. “I guess we’ll both have a good night, then…”

Bossuet winked again, “Don’t forget we’ll watch an amazing showcase as well.”

“Showcase?” Grantaire laughed, “What showcase? My mind is thoroughly elsewhere.” His phone buzzed and he crushed it to his ear without checking the caller. “Hello?”

“Is everything on schedule?”

“Yes, Combeferre. Don’t stress. I’m about to head out with some of the flyers now,” Grantaire raised his eyebrows to Bossuet.

There was a scuffle on the line. “Hello? R?” Courfeyrac interjected. “Angel, darling. It sounds like you’re _on_ schedule, but we’d very much prefer if you were _ahead_ of it.”

“I’ve got it covered,” Grantaire said, “Don’t worry.”

“Darling, we aren’t worried. We’re trying to stress you out to make you move a little quicker. As gorgeous as your saunter is, it is hardly practical in a time pressured situation.”

“I don’t _saunter_ …”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac both scoffed. Combeferre grabbed the phone back. “Either way, the flyers are not going to hand themselves out. Could you take Bossuet with you?”

Bossuet grimaced.

“He looks pretty busy…” Grantaire said.

The phone line fuzzed as once again Courfeyrac took over. “Put him on the line, please.”

Grantaire mouthed an apology at Bossuet as he handed the phone across.

“Hi, Courf…” Bossuet heaved a sigh, “I’m working on some costumes at the moment… No… No… I suppose I _could_ do them overnight… Fine! Fine. You’re an unyielding pain in the neck, but I’ll do it for you. Yep. I love you too, man. Right, we’ll get on with it then. Bye.”

“Bye!” Grantaire called.

Bossuet grabbed a handful of pamphlets. “I guess we’re on leafleting duty now… It never ends, does it?” he said, good-naturedly.

“It never does.”

~*~

“Honey, I’m home!” Éponine sung through the walls of the entire apartment. Within seconds she had pummelled straight through Grantaire’s door and jumped onto his bed.

“You’re awfully cheery.”

“Did I mention to you that my master plan is working, and I am officially one third of a throuple?”

“Officially?” Grantaire squinted.

“Okay, not _officially._ Labels are _so_ last century, honey.”

“Well you haven’t told me anything, because you’ve been uncharacteristically mysterious about the whole thing. Cosette told me you all kissed, though.” Grantaire looked up from his laptop, where he was scheduling last minute promotional posts across social media.

“Oh, we did,” Éponine beamed, “And it was maybe the most romantic moment of my life.”

“Girl, what’s happened to you?” Grantaire squinted, “Since when have you cared about romance? I thought indifference and unpleasantness was your type.”

“I’ve changed, my love. God, they are both so sweet they rot my teeth.”

“Can you briefly explain _why_ you’re going after _Marius?”_

Éponine threw her head back. “Oh no,” she said, laughing, “He’s _definitely_ going after me.” She smirked. “I guess I’m just sick of dating assholes, and thought… hm… maybe I should be with someone actually _nice._ And then I can be a bad influence on _them!”_

_“Okay,_ I get _that…_ ” Grantaire took her by the shoulders, “But _Marius?!”_

“He’s _so_ sweet. In a few years, he’ll be some equally sweet girl’s husband… and they’ll get married in a church, and have 2.5 kids, and a picket fence and he’ll get really into bird-watching, or something. But before that… that boy _has_ to learn how to say the word ‘sex’ without turning pink and stammering. That’s where I come in, baby!”

“So you’re corrupting him?”

“I prefer ‘ _teaching him_.’” She grinned.

Grantaire laughed with a roll of his eyes. Éponine had been in enough ridiculous romantic situations that usually her plans failed to phase him, but this was a little different. “So, how’s it going then?”

She gasped, putting a hand to her breastbone and rolling onto his knees. She said in an affected, posh accent, “Goodness gracious, darling R! Are you trying to uncover the _intimate details?”_

“I am merely wondering how Marius’ blushing problem is improving.”

“Dreadfully,” Éponine said, “But who can blame him? He’s in a throuple with two gorgeous, badass women… His tender heart needs to adjust. But… tragically, there are no _intimate details_ to spill. We’ve kissed a bit, got a bit handsy… but we’re taking it slow. I am as thirsty as a woman stranded in a desert.”

“Ugh, tell me about it,” Grantaire said.

“Don’t _‘ugh, tell me about it,’,_ Mister _‘we’re taking it slow until the showcase, but that just means we’re going to see each other once and immediately have sex.’_ It’s been _four days._ You’ve got _nothing_ to be thirsty about.”

“Um, actually,” said Grantaire - who had not seen Éponine in the past four days, and so had not had a chance to spill the news. “We didn’t have sex _immediately.”_

_“_ Why? Do I want to know, or is it something weird? Ooh, _is it something weird?_ ” her eyes lit up. “Hot people are always into something weird.”

“I don’t know…” Grantaire stretched out blissfully, “If you call a declaration of love on the most romantic rooftop in all of Paris weird, then, yeah… I guess it was weird…”

Éponine made a strangled sound that was halfway between a screech and a yelp, and promptly fell off the bed in shock.

“ _What?”_ she said, sprawled on the floorboards.

“You heard me,” he said, reaching down to pull her up off the floor.

She heaved herself into a standing position, clinging to his palms, until they were chest-to-chest. “He said he loved you?”

Grantaire tried to hide how enormous his grin was becoming.

“Oh my God!” she squealed, jumping up and down, her grip on his hands so tight that he was forced to do the same. “Your dream boy!”

“Ugh, cringe, Éponine,” he joked. “Don’t let him hear you calling him my dream boy. I’ll never live it down.”

“Would you be able to live this down?” she flipped her hair and adopted a gruff voice, standing in a slightly Grantaire-esque stance, “Oh Éponine! I want to curl up in his heart and fall asleep! The sex is so good I think I’m in love! I could just watch him dancing for hours! His hands are crafted by angels!”

He tackled her lightly onto the bed and flung a pillow at her. “Your impression skills need a lot of work.”

She beamed up at him, her brown eyes glinting like rum, the skin around her eyelids scrunched up like creased newspaper.

“What?” he said, expecting some silly jab. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She continued to smile, her shoulders softening. “Aw!” she said, fluttering a hand to her heart.

“ _What?_ ”

“Darling, I’m just _so_ happy for you!” She reached up to give his hand a squeeze. “You deserve to be happy, my love. So, so, so happy.”

He began to pull a face, but she instantly shushed him.

“Objection!” she yelled, “I will not hear any negativity from the defendant’s mouth. He deserves to be happy forever, and that is that. Case closed.” She mimed knocking a hammer on the top of Grantaire’s laptop. “Now, get on with your work. We’ve literally got so much to do in two days.”

“So much,” Grantaire agreed with a groan.

“Yo, Patron Minette are going to be amazing, though… so you better be watching.”

“Of course I’ll be watching, where else would I be?”

“I dunno,” she sniped, strolling to the door, “The roof?”

He rolled his eyes and shooed her away, turning back to the intricacies of web advertising with a grin. After approximately one second of looking at analytics, the smile slid away, and Grantaire just longed for the next two days to be over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gasp the showcase is nearly upon us! everyone is tense and THIRSTY gosh. 
> 
> We're coming to the end!! (F o r real this time ( i know I said this was going to be shorter than virtuoso but it's probably going to have exactly the same number of chapters, sigh I WRITE way too MUCH)) Really hope you enjoyed this chapter and are enjoying this world! Spoiler alert: I've started planning my next E/R fic and my only hints as to what it will be about is that strawberries will be HEAVILY involved - so keep your eyes peeled! :D 
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts! I'm just about to go into a month-long lockdown so I'll be here with nothing else to do but squeal about these boys and les amis, so I would LOOOOVE to know what you think!! <33


	29. Performance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening of the showcase arrives in all it's glittering glory. There are crises to avert, lovers to distract, and hearts too full of wonder to cope.

It seemed, before Grantaire had a moment to sleep, breathe, or think, that the day of the showcase had just rolled up, and promptly ran him over.

His hands jittered with nervous energy, not focusing on his workshop shoes at all. Feuilly gave him a glance over the desk, and nodded, his head bobbing just a centimetre.

Grantaire gave an enormous sigh and stood up. “Right,” he said to the room, “We’d better head off, Feuilly.”

“Is it time to go to your doctor’s appointment already?” Feuilly said, over-dramatically, as though auditioning for a high school performance of Shakespeare. Grantaire squinted at him to make him tone it down.

“Don’t want to be late,” he said, surreptitiously glancing over the workshop, noting that almost no-one was paying them any attention.

The Old Bishop gave them a stare down. “I thought you said you were going to the dentist?”

“Um,” Grantaire winced, “Yeah, I am. Gotta get my wisdom teeth removed, so Feuilly’s taking me home.”

The Bishop’s eyebrows slanted. “Oh, before you go, boys…” he creaked up to his feet, and hobbled over to them, rooting in his pocket. He unfolded a ragged piece of paper and brandished it before them.

Grantaire looked in despair at his drawing of Enjolras and Cosette dancing in his shoes, with today’s date, and all of the information about the showcase plastered boldly in the middle.

“I found this on your desk,” the Bishop said.

Feuilly and Grantaire both shrank.

“Um,” Feuilly said, his cheeks pink.

“I…” Grantaire pulled a face.

The Bishop leant close so that no-one else in the workshop could hear. “Keep your story straight next time, okay?” he gave a wink of one of his watery, blue eyes and returned to his desk. “Enjoy the dentists, R,” he called loudly.

~*~

They arrived at the Opera House and were directed backstage, where Les Amis and other dancers were dashing about, half in costume, fussing over shoe ribbons and hair pins.

“Thank God you’re here,” Courfeyrac said, rushing past, “Come on, follow me! Keep up!”

The three of them darted through the corridors towards the dressing rooms. As they speed-walked, Courfeyrac gave a breathless commentary. “One of Musichetta’s shoes just split open during dress rehearsal, so she’s kind of freaking out. Joly’s run out of shoe ribbons - did you bring spares?”

“Yep,” Feuilly fished a handful out of his work bag.

“A hero! A knight in shining armour! Bless you to your core, Feuilly, dearest,” Courfeyrac reeled off his compliments before continuing his list of terrors. “Cosette’s fine, but I think she’s the only one. Jehan got slightly too stoned before dress rehearsal, and that really upset Enjolras…”

“Jehan’s stoned?” Grantaire asked.

“When are they not?” Courf laughed, “No. But they _are_ soberish now. Enjolras is in a state, and Combeferre’s trying to calm him down. Oh. And your friend Marius cried so much during the rehearsal that he had to be escorted out of the auditorium so he didn’t distract the dancers…”

“Is there any good news, or is it all a disaster?”

“Oh, darling, R. There’s plenty of good news! Primarily that this hellish evening will be over soon!” Courfeyrac pulled them along. “Feuilly, my dear. Can you deal with Musichetta and Joly? R. You’re on Enjolras duty for the next…” he checked his phone, “Forty minutes.” He stopped in his tracks for a moment, staring blankly into the abyss. “ _Forty minutes?_ Good Lord. We’re all going to die a horribly painful death. Feuilly go straight ahead to that dressing room, R, go to the second door on your right. Good luck!”

Grantaire made his way to the second door on the right, expecting all manner of disasters behind the doorframe.

“Oh… Grantaire,” Enjolras looked up from a leg stretch. “I wasn’t expecting to see you until after the showcase,” he said mildly.

“Are you alright? Courf said you were freaking out?”

“Hm?” Enjolras’ eyes were a little too wide, “Oh no, I’m fine,” he said, nodding a moment too long like a bobble-head toy on a car dashboard.

“Are you sure?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “You look a bit dazed.”

“Hm?” Enjolras blinked, “Um… I… Um… What time is it?”

“The showcase starts in forty minutes.”

“Oh!” He looked stunned. “Oh. God…” he stood up and started to pace, rolling up and down on his pointe shoes. “Oh God. This is more nerve-wracking than _anything_ I did for the National. I feel sick.” His finely crafted hands were wrought, trembling between his tightly clasped fingers. “God, Grantaire… I can’t do this - _God, I-”_

“Hey, hey, hey,” Grantaire took Enjolras’ hands, “You’re fine. It’s going to be fine.”

Enjolras squinted as though he was looking at Grantaire for the first time. His lips quivered like he was weighing up what to say.

“Have you warmed up?” Grantaire asked calmly, shaking Enjolras’ palms a little.

“Hm?”

“Come on. Warm up. I don’t know what you do. Plies?”

Enjolras gave a surprised hiccup of a laugh. “I can do plies if you want me to.”

“Teach me how.”

“You’re trying to distract me,” Enjolras smiled.

“Obviously,” Grantaire tugged at his hands, “But for good reason, this time. Come on, don’t think about anything but my terrible form.”

Enjolras gave a watery grin and pushed Grantaire’s feet into a turned out position. “Okay, but if you’re going to warm up with me, I’m going to push you hard.”

“Good,” Grantaire said, lifting his arms in a weak imitation of how a ballerina’s arms should look.

Enjolras snorted. “What is _that?_ ” he said, pulling at Grantaire’s elbows and rounding the curve of his wrists. “That’s fifth position, okay? But you start with your hands on the bar for plies. Okay, now bend your knees and sink down gracefully.”

Grantaire tried to follow instructions.

“ _Gracefully!”_ Enjolras laughed. “And keep your butt tucked in, you look like you’re about to start twerking.”

“Is twerking not an approved ballet move?” Grantaire said.

Enjolras’ hands reached out and tucked Grantaire’s tailbone in, his palm gentle and warm above his shirt. “No twerking.” From the way he touched Grantaire lightly, the tension uncoiled from his shoulders, his eyes dancing over Grantaire’s posture - Grantaire knew he had forgotten, if only a little, about the showcase in half an hour.

~*~

Combeferre pushed the door of the dressing room open, surprised to see Grantaire hopping about, flailing his arms, and Enjolras frowning and trying not to laugh.

“Sorry, folks,” he said softly, “This is your five minute call. Enj, all Les Amis dancers are meeting in the green room. R, you have your ticket, right?”

“I do,” Grantaire said, feeling in his back pocket for his complimentary ticket. “I should go and find my seat.”

Combeferre gave them both a thumbs up and snuck off.

“You’re going to be amazing,” Grantaire said, “Because you _are_ amazing. And anyone who sees you won’t be able to believe that you’re mortal.”

Enjolras smiled, his bottom lip dragging through his teeth. “Thanks, R,” he said, voice strained. “Thanks for all of this. You’ve been amazing.”

“Hey, I’m a triple threat, what can I say? Shoes, emotional support, sex. I’ve got it covered.” He stepped close, reaching a hand up to cup Enjolras’ feverish cheek. “Seriously, Enjolras. You’re a wonder.” He tiptoed up, joining their lips in a sweet, lingering moment that seemed to last for hours, but ended too quickly. “Break a leg.”

“Not literally, I hope,” Enjolras said. “Right. I have to go… See you later.” He gave a final squeeze of Grantaire’s palms, grabbed his pointe shoes by the ribbons and darted to the door.

“Good luck!” Grantaire said, watching him dash away.

Grantaire walked briskly through the corridor, making his way to the front of the theatre. He passed a majority of Les Amis, all hurrying about, blowing kisses at him as he wished them luck. As quickly as he could, he popped his head into the Patron Minette changing room.

Éponine and the guys were lounging on their phones - the extreme opposite of how stressed Les Amis looked.

“Hey, Ép, hey guys!” Grantaire said, “Just coming by to wish you luck for this evening.”

“Ah, darling R,” Éponine said, fluttering her fingers, “We’re gonna kill it. We’re just going to zen out for the first half, warm up in the interval, and then blow everyone’s minds.

“I look forward to it,” Grantaire laughed. “See you after, gang!”

With time running out, he dashed into the auditorium, beamed at the usher, bought a flimsy programme, and slid into his seat next to Feuilly. “Shoe crisis averted?”

Feuilly grinned. “My magical fingers sorted it out in a second. Their rookie ballet shoe issues are no match for our shoemaking expertise. Enjolras crisis averted?”

“I will preface by saying that my magical fingers played no part in it, but, _yes,_ the crisis is averted,” Grantaire laughed.

“Dream team,” Feuilly threw an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder and crushed him tight. “I’ve never actually seen my shoes in action before… This is exciting, man.”

“I thought you said ballet was lame?”

“Not social justice ballet. This is _dope as hell.”_

“Ah, Feuilly. It’s been a pleasure to work with you by my side on this.”

“You wouldn’t have gotten far without the best shoemaker in Paris, my friend,” Feuilly ruffled a hand through Grantaire’s curls. “Love you, man,” he said, a little gruffly.

“Love you, too, Feu,” Grantaire said, the feeling of belonging within Les Amis crashing into him all at once - he had not even realised how lonely he had been before Enjolras’ crazy scheme had come careening into his life.

The lights dimmed, casting the room in a shadowy lull.

The soft clack of wooden pointe shoes padding across the stage echoed in the silence. The stage filled with glowing, bright, white light, and the first ensemble were positioned perfectly across the floor.

Grantaire peeked in his programme to learn that the young women before him were all ex-prisoners - reformed through the art of dance. Throughout the first act there were a number of interesting dance companies - women in their eighties who took up ballet in their retirement, a deaf troupe that felt the music through vibrations in the floor, a tap company that shouted political protests in time to the rhythm of the tapping - but Grantaire could not pay attention to a moment of it. Les Amis were the final act of the first half, and Enjolras looked other-worldly in the pamphlet, and Grantaire’s entire body was filled with nerves, anticipation and a quivering jolt of excitement.

He clapped in the right places, but he watched with eyes glazed over.

With the crashing of tap shoes and angry chanting ringing in his ears, Grantaire finally sat up right when Combeferre stepped out of the wings. His smart shoes clacked across the stage and he sat at the piano. The seconds it took for him to rearrange his sheet music and take a shallow breath felt like they lasted a lifetime. He gave a small nod towards the audience, before drifting his hands to the keys and sinking into the music.

With the dramatic opening chord crashing through the audience, the lights blared, and in sharply polished perfection, Enjolras spun onto the stage, head whipping at lightning speed, pirouetting gracefully en pointe.

Grantaire sat up straight, the air stolen from his lungs, his knuckles white against the armrests as Enjolras leapt through the air and landed perfectly. The dancer in front of him felt like a God immortalised in statues - seemingly impossible for him to be just a man of flesh and blood. From the rounded globe of each fingertip, to each string of muscles through his limbs, to the curve of his neck to the point of his toes - every inch of Enjolras was masterfully placed.

Grantaire knew he had seen every inch of the man before him, had their skin pressed together, their breaths mingled, but looking upon him dancing was like watching a universe being created.

He felt a touch light-headed - dizzied from Enjolras’ unending spinning. He leapt across the stage, legs splitting to impossible angles, every curve of skin moving with intention. He danced like molten sunlight upon a soft Sunday morning.

With a sudden jolt, Grantaire realised that he had seen this dance before. On the very first night he had seen Enjolras dance. His lips dropped open.

Les Amis had all been purposefully mysterious about what they would be dancing, their lips twitching into ill-concealed smiles whenever they were asked about their piece. All at once, Grantaire realised why. They were dancing the National Ballet’s performance but diversifying it in their uniquely Les Amis style.

Enjolras was dancing the female lead role - parodying the performance that had gotten him fired.

Grantaire had not thought it possible for him to be more impressed by Enjolras, but this had struck him speechless.

_“Wow,”_ he whispered under his breath as Enjolras floated into a jump, his back foot arching over his head. Somehow he managed to drift down as lightly as a downy feather, landing softly on the tips of his toes. Feuilly reached over, squeezing Grantaire’s knee, his face splitting open into a beam, his eyes disappearing between crinkled joy. Grantaire smiled back - his heart feeling even more feather-light than Enjolras’ dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I NEED TO SEE ENJOLRAS DANCING. Too bad he's fictional, smh. Why???!?! 
> 
> Gasp! We're in the final stretch! Only five chapters left before we leave our ballet les amis behind! Feeling BITTERSWEET already.
> 
> What did you think?! I absolutely LOVE hearing from you, and responding to comments is one of the best parts of my lockdown week! Thanks so much for reading and for being so lovely - let's scream together in the comments lol! <33


	30. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through Grantaire's eyes, the showcase is a sight to behold - as is post-show Enjolras.

The sight of all of Les Amis lined up en pointe was a wonder.

Where the Paris National Ballet Company had included a long line of slender, white girls - all willowy, and beautiful and graceful, but all costumed and styled to be indistinguishable from one another - Les Amis were the opposite in every way, besides their beauty and grace.

To see bodies that had been told they were not designed for the stage, boldly be there. 

Bodies that had been told they were too big, or too dark, or not conforming to a rigid gender role, or too outspoken, or missing limbs, all standing under lights that painted them golden - beautiful not in spite of their differences, but because of them.

Grantaire felt his eyes start stinging before they had even been onstage for five minutes.

Enjolras played the titular character - halo of hair encroached with roses and glittering gemstones, a soft, floaty tutu of rose tulle drifting across his calves. He was the prince, arranged to marry the princess. Cosette, of course, played the princess - but instead of her lifetime of tutus and pointe shoes, she wore the masculine dance leggings, and jacket, in rich, royal blue, with puffed linen sleeves. On her feet, she wore the traditional ballet flats. Although she had been trained to be the epitome of femininity in her years of practise, she pulled back from the expectations, squaring her shoulders, walking with a swagger of confidence and open-chested pride.

It was clear that Enjolras and Cosette had known each other for years, because when they danced together it was like poetry. In a pointed shift of roles, Cosette was the supporting dancer, her arms straining under Enjolras’ weight during lifts. For someone so tiny, she had surprisingly impressive biceps.

Jehan played the other love interest - switching between pointe and flat shoes through different scenes and occasionally leaping onstage barefoot - but always, _always_ in a tutu.

Musichetta and Joly played the role of of Enjolras’ royal parents. In the National production, the King had been stately and disapproving, and the Queen icy and elegant - but Joly and Musichetta played them interwoven and loving and more human. The duet they danced together was achingly sweet, love pouring between them. Joly’s arched runner’s blade at the end of his right leg had been painted silver to match his outfit, and he sprung across the stage, cutting a line through the air with his tight spins and sharp, precise movements. Musichetta spilled around him, her bold, curved motions contrasting with his insular ones. She pirouetted into his reach, and they spun together - looking like they were holding the most important thing in the universe in their arms.

If Enjolras’ dancing with Cosette was like poetry, with Jehan it was like music. They bounded off one another, turning impossibly quickly, surging close and intimate, falling into stillness besides the heaving of their chests, and then drifting away - their intensity growing into a crescendo of dynamicism and movement. The duet between Jehan and Enjolras was like listening to fiery political speeches, or music written to be loud and angry. To watch them circling one another, eyes bright, light on their feet - both in shoes created to match the darker shades of their skin, both in skirts - not to satirise, or parody - but to make a statement. To watch them curl into each other like lovers - tender, delicate and affectionate - all things society had told them they were not - it felt like a sort of magic that they had written for themselves.

When the thirty minutes drew to an end, all five dancers dropped to their knees, bowing their heads, as though praying. They slowly lifted, peeling off layers of costumes. In unison they turned to the back of the stage, letting the final layer of shirt fall away, so their bare shoulder blades were exposed. Written in stark marker, across their skin, were cruel words - the words that had been thrown at them their entire lives, from teachers and dancers and audition panels and anonymous strangers online.

_‘Too fat.’_

_‘Too dark-skinned.’_

_‘Too lazy.’_

_‘Too skinny.’_

_‘Too angry.’_

_‘Too hairy.’_

_‘Too outspoken.’_

_‘Too ugly.’_

_‘Too deformed.’_

The words covered all of their skin, some statements tiny and unreadable, word after word blurring into a writhing mass of viciousness. The lights burned bright on the insults - forcing the audience to confront the bodies before them, and their own prejudices. After a long minute of silence, Enjolras broke away, turning to the crowd. His breastbone pulsed shallowly with nervous anticipation, his gaze was fiery. He looked out to them all, shoulders back and head tall, like a young revolutionary trying to rouse his people.

“Do _we_ need to listen to these words?” he said, voice ringing across the auditorium, as clear as a church bell, “Or does ballet need to _change_?” 

Sharply, the lights went down, and when they relit - Les Amis were hand-in-hand, taking a swooping bow.

Grantaire couldn’t clap loud enough, though his palms were stinging.

Enjolras looked through the audience - face set in a determined furrow. His eyes dropped to where Grantaire was sat, beaming and applauding frantically, and Enjolras’ face softened, his lips curving into a private smile for just the two of them.

Les Amis ran back into the wings, arms filled with bits of discarded costumes. Grantaire saw Jehan’s arm crush Cosette into a bouncing hug just before they were out of eyesight, and the next dancers took their places.

It would have been easy for Grantaire to sit back and daydream until the end, but he knew Éponine would never forgive him if he wasn’t paying attention.

Luckily the interval gave him ample time to let the emotion and wonder wash over him, babbling to Feuilly who was _nearly_ as excited as him.

When the lights went down again, a loud blare of contemporary music crashed through the room, and Patron-Minette crashed onto the stage - Éponine wheeling in an intricate arrangement of cartwheels and flips.

Montparnasse - who had done a bit of ballet training when he was younger was the elegance that contrasted Éponine’s raw energy, Claquesous was disturbingly good at mid-air acrobatics, Gueulemer was broad, and could support Éponine’s weight as she danced and tumbled around. Babet was the most highly trained in contemporary dance, and his every slightest move was drenched in emotion and intention. While they were not as polished as Les Amis - their enthusiasm and feats of daredevilish acrobatics made up for it. It seemed that with every leap they took they were just daring themselves to break their necks - yet somehow never did.

Grantaire smiled proudly as Éponine fell into the splits and then was lifted by Montparnasse and flung roughly to Gueulemer who spun her by an ankle - it was as though they were all trying to outrun gravity’s laws. She flipped out of his hold and they all came together as one, pulsing and breathing and connected, before the lights dropped.

With a loud whoop, Grantaire fell into applause, blowing a kiss to Éponine who was glowing in a red-cheeked beam as she dropped into a bow. As the rest of Patron-Minette bowed, Grantaire followed Éponine’s eyeline into the wings.

Cosette, wrapped in an oversized, ugly jumper was hidden just out of sight, clapping wildly. She jumped up and down in excitement and when Éponine turned back to face the audience once more, her cheeks were even pinker.

~*~

After, Grantaire bustled through the crowd, pushing his way into the lobby and rushing to be first in line at the cloakroom. When he had finally filled his arms with his belongings he darted through the backstage doors - feeling a little guilty as the ‘staff only’ sign swung shut behind him.

He filed through corridors filled with dancers and he smiled as he passed, congratulating some of the other troupes that had performed. Almost everyone had the same breathless, hazy energy as him and nodded back, dazed - smiling and chattering with fellow company members.

“Éponine!” he hollered, spotting her profile through the bustle. She turned with a grin and bounded across the hallway, crushing him into a bone-grinding hug and peppering loud kisses across his forehead and cheeks.

“R, my angel boy!” she said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“You were incredible!” he gushed.

“Ah, I feel alive!” she beamed, “Like literally high. I think I blacked out. If we could bottle this adrenaline and sell it we’d be rich as hell.”

“Hey, if you keep dancing like that, you’ll be rich as hell anyway! Look at you! You were like a hurricane. Like… _bam…_ I’m Éponine and you’re gonna want to watch everything I do because I am _iconic.”_

Éponine preened and kissed him on the cheek again. “You’re no good for my ego, darling.”

“I got you flowers,” he reached into his bag and pulled out a bundle of lavender - her favourite blooms.

She tucked them to her chest, burying her nose in the blossoms. When she looked up, her face was all pinched together with love spilling out of her skin. “Oh, my darling, darling R,” she said, “Whatever did I do to deserve an angel like you as my best friend?” She hugged him again. “Thank you, babe.” She looked away and the atmosphere jolted just an inch. “Um…” she began, once again catching his eye, “Are you headed back to the apartment?”

In sync, they both looked towards the Les Amis dressing room.

Grantaire raised a brow. “Are _you?_ ” he said pointedly.

A grin of mischief danced onto her lips. “I have options,” she said with a wink, “Three, to be precise.” She threw her head back in a laugh, “I love this,” she said, “Life hardly ever works out so perfectly to plan, does it?”

“Well… yeah,” Grantaire glanced away again, “I’ll go back to the apartment, then.”

“Then you shall not see me ‘til morning, my dear,” she pinched his cheek. “We are _so_ lucky,” she said with an excitable giggle.

“Éponine, I have never seen you so overexcited in all of my life,” he said, mock-sternly.

She only laughed in response, tucking a stem of lavender into her hair. “How do I look?”

“Simply ravishing,” Grantaire grinned.

“As do you,” she said, placing one of his curls behind his ear. She gave a shimmy of her shoulders and winked again. “Well, I must depart, my love. It’s so terribly rude of me to leave my company alone together without my presence.”

“I’ve got no idea how you got Marius _and_ Cosette involved in this.”

“It’s called magnetism, darling. See ya!” In a split-second she had taken off, weaving back through the crowd and out of sight.

Grantaire strode up to the dressing room door, but just before he knocked, felt a peculiar little shy feeling crawling up his skin. He stood for a moment, hearing the rush of blood in his ears, feeling the gnawing at the inside of his stomach, and the rawness of his every nerve. He gave a soft smile and raised his hand to knock.

The door flung open and he was flurried with kisses on the cheeks, and a bottle of champagne was thrust at him. Courfeyrac had Grantaire’s face in his hands and was squeezing just a little too tight.

“The best shoemaker in all of Paris!” he cooed, urging Grantaire to drink straight from the bottle. “It’s time to celebrate!”

Grantaire choked a little on the rush of bubbled wine and handed the sweating bottle back to Courfeyrac. He grimaced. “What _is_ that?”

“Cheap,” Courfeyrac laughed, “Anyway, we must be off! We have an important meeting with our other dancers - don’t we ‘Ferre?”

“A very important meeting,” Combeferre said, sending Grantaire a flash of a cheeky smile. “Well done, R. We did something _really_ special tonight.”

“Though it’s not the only special thing you’ll be doing tonight, hey?” Courfeyrac said with a grin, “Bye, my loves! Come on, ‘Ferre.” The duo bundled out of the room, the door clunking shut behind them.

Enjolras stood from his dressing room chair, half in costume, bare-footed and eyes still a little dazed from the lights. His face fell into a smile and he took Grantaire’s palms in his own, his thumb tracing slowly and gently over the canvas of Grantaire’s skin.

“Well done,” Grantaire said. His voice was quiet, but the moment roared so loud - so visceral and present it felt like the sort of memory you would store away in your heart until so much time had passed that the surroundings, and other distractions were forgotten, but the memory of two hands and two hearts entwined could play back like an old film.

“We did it,” Enjolras said, nuzzling his face into Grantaire’s shoulder. “God, I’m exhausted. But we did it.”

Grantaire kissed the brow before him, tightening his fingers into Enjolras’ curls, scratching lightly, soothingly, at his scalp. “Hey,” he said, drawing back a step, “I got you something.” He reached into his bag, “I wanted you to feel like an old-timey ballerina star with an illegitimate, scandalous lover that visited you in your dressing room.”

“I’m glad we don’t have to be illegitimate anymore,” Enjolras smiled, “I’m free to love you in front of everyone.”

Grantaire felt his chest tighten. “It isn’t that special,” he said, brandishing a bouquet of flowers, “I picked them for you myself. I found a ton of wildflowers on the way here, and I thought I’d be lame and romantic.”

Enjolras stuck out his lower lip and when he looked back at Grantaire, his eyes were soft and warm like molten honey, and he clasped the stems in his hands.

“You _are_ lame and romantic,” he said, “And I feel very lucky to know you.”

“If anyone is lucky, it’s me,” Grantaire replied.

Enjolras laid the flowers on his dressing table and sat back down, eyeing Grantaire through the mirror. “If you help me change, we’ll be out of here quicker…” he said, gesturing for Grantaire to come closer.

Reaching for a damp cloth, Grantaire perched on his heels, face at eye-level with the lithe stretch of Enjolras’ back - all marred with cruel, untruthful words. He started rubbing at the conjunction of Enjolras’ shoulderblades, watching the skin and muscle flinch from the cool, wet flannel.

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, “I’m a little sore.”

Grantaire continued, a million times gentler, daubing the words away and letting his broad thumbs massage away some of the tension in Enjolras’ back. “You do feel a bit tense,” he remarked, working his palms deeper into the knots across Enjolras’ shoulders. When the make-up was wiped clean, Grantaire continued to press away at Enjolras’ skin - feeling his lover arch under his touch.

“I want to do shows every night if this is how sweet you’ll be,” Enjolras smiled.

“I’ll be sweet for you every day, no matter what,” Grantaire kissed lightly at the nape of Enjolras’ neck.

Enjolras stood, slinging on his regular clothes and furrowing into his coat. He scooped up the flowers and locked his fingers through Grantaire’s. “To yours?”

“To mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaawww the showcase! aaaaaaa to social justice ballet and calling out its harmful traditions!! awww R being an angel and bringing flowers and massaging his achy bf, and being a TOTAL sweetheart. I love a showcase, I love a revolutionary squad, and I love softness! I am just fulfilling my own selfish need for artsy soft fics lol. 
> 
> gasp! I'm writing the epilogue to this now and I'm so SAD! Gonna miss this AU so much! :( 
> 
> Really hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know if you did! Your kind words are the very things that keep me INSPIRED to write and I LOVE reading your thoughts SO MUCH! so thank you thank you thank you!! <3


	31. Hyperextension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-show bliss.

Grantaire had his old record player on, crackling with the sounds of some old, feathery jazz music that had been found in a thrift shop with no cover. He emerged from the kitchen with a bottle of the fanciest wine they had (which was remarkably un-fancy.) “I’m afraid Éponine and I are both cheapskates, so this is the best we’ve got…”

Enjolras jolted on the sofa, blinking a little dazedly.

“Were you just asleep?” Grantaire asked, sitting beside him, letting their thighs press together.

“Hm?” Enjolras rubbed at his eyes, “No, I must have just nodded off for a second.” He opened his eyes wide, giving his head a small shake. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly,” Grantaire said, handing over a too-full glass of wine, “If you wanna get an early night, that’s cool.”

Enjolras grimaced. “We’ve been looking forward to tonight for weeks.”

Grantaire gave a shrug. “I could look forward to tomorrow.”

“No, no,” Enjolras said. “I don’t want to wait anymore.” He took a sip of the wine and placed the glass on the floor. He stretched himself backwards, tugging at Grantaire’s arm so they both landed horizontally on the couch.

“Woah!” Grantaire grinned, also putting his glass down, the wine tipping and splashing out onto his fingers. “Oh God,” he said, trying not to get scarlet wine on the furniture.

Enjolras pulled his hand close, lips kissing over the globe of his palm, tongue drinking up the spilled wine, his teeth nipping at skin and turning it pink. From hand, to wrist, to neck, to collarbone - Enjolras’ mouth brushed against Grantaire’s flushed flesh. Grantaire felt tightly-coiled, as though a pressure had been building in him for days.

Finally, lips found lips, and they were like a boat at sea - clinging to one another so as not to drown.

“I love you so much it kind of hurts,” Grantaire said, delirious on kisses.

“That’s not great,” Enjolras laughed, “I love you so much I kind of forget what hurt feels like.”

Grantaire slipped his fingers down the front of Enjolras’ shirt, skipping over buttons and baring a sliver of chest. He pulled back, pooling the shirt down across Enjolras’ shoulders - but as he did so, a wince dashed across Enjolras’ face.

“Are you alright?” he said, leaning back.

“Hm?” Enjolras rubbed at his shoulders, “Sorry, yeah. Just… a little tender. Yeah, no, sorry, I’m screwing this up…”

“No you’re not,” Grantaire pulled away further, leaving a hand on Enjolras’ thigh. “Let’s just get some sleep.”

“Ugh,” Enjolras groaned, lips turned down.

“A star needs his rest,” Grantaire stood and held a palm out for Enjolras to grab onto.

“I think I’ll just have a quick bath,” Enjolras hoisted himself up, stretching out his shoulders, shirt falling and exposing his chest. “You want to join?”

Grantaire gave an amused smile. “That doesn’t sound like an early night to me…”

“You’ve never bathed with a lover?” Enjolras said, discarding his shirt on the sofa and guiding them both into the bathroom.

“Well, I _have_ … but it never is _just_ a bath.”

“Well take your first ever _just a bath_ with me, then,” Enjolras smiled. He perched on the edge of the tub and twisted on the hot water tap. He trailed his fingers, absent-mindedly, in the water. “I love this… Do you have any candles or bath salts or anything?”

Grantaire who was showered most days in less than five minutes, delved through Éponine’s overflowing bath stash and knew she wouldn’t mind them using a splash of her bubble bath and a few of her thousands of candles.

The room turned hot, and the mirrors were drenched in condensation, so that the pair of them looked like misty silhouettes.

Enjolras slipped out of the rest of his clothes, stepping into the bathtub - looking glorious and heavenly in the candlelight and the steam. Through the walls, the music twirled away - all faraway sounding and dreamy. “Come on,” said Enjolras, “You can’t just watch.”

Grantaire cleared his throat and started to unbutton his shirt, hands fumbling a touch awkwardly. Obviously, Enjolras had seen his every stretch of skin before, but it felt different - more exposed. He unchanged quickly, submerging himself in the water, their legs brushing beneath the surface, their knees pulled to their chests, face to face. 

Enjolras leant forwards, cupping a sodden hand against Grantaire’s cheek. “Try to relax.”

“Sorry, there’s not much room.”

“It’s comfier if you face the other way,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire stood and turned, feeling loud and huge as the water crashed around him. Enjolras’ hands steadily pulled him back, tucking the back of his head onto Enjolras’ chest.

He stared at the ceiling - at the crack near the light fixture, and the wispy scattering of spiderwebs too high to reach. The water lapped at his hair, pulsing over his ears every now and then. While underwater, he could hear the beating of Enjolras’ heart so loud and steady in his chest. He could feel the way their breaths had synced, the way they moulded to one another. A deep peace crashed over him - a meditation of feeling safe and secure that he was sure he had never felt before.

“I’ll wash your hair,” Enjolras offered.

Grantaire murmured his consent, tipping his head back as rivulets of warm water trickled down his forehead. The feeling of fingertips soft against his scalp, winding up in his thick hair - achingly gentle and soothing. Grantaire exhaled. His chest felt ready to cave in. Nobody had touched him so intimately and lovingly in such a innocent way. It felt like Enjolras held the sweetest of kisses, and the warmest of summer mornings, and the truest meaning of love in his palms, and he massaged them all into Grantaire’s crown.

He melted into Enjolras’ chest, and received a tug on his ear.

“You aren’t making this easy, my love,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire could hear the smile in his voice. He obediently leant back forwards, feeling fingers trace circles against his skin. With a strange thickness in his throat, he coughed - trying to stop his face from crumpling.

Enjolras creaked the shower head on and held his palm over Grantaire’s eyes, rinsing away the suds. “There we go,” he said, his voice echoing into silence. After a moment, “Grantaire?”

Grantaire slowly turned.

“Oh,” Enjolras’ brows furrowed, and he reached to cup Grantaire’s face with a hand. “Oh, Grantaire, what’s wrong?”

Grantaire took a shaky breath, trying to compose himself and smooth his features into a mild expression.

“Hey,” Enjolras whispered, “Are you okay?”

He breathed again, but this time it got caught in his throat and turned into an embarrassing choked sound. With a tight chest, his strangled breath evolved into a sob - and for some reason he was crying and gasping for air, and Enjolras held them tightly together, murmuring into his hair - his hands firm and broad across Grantaire’s back.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire coughed, when he had finally pulled himself together enough to speak. “I - I don’t know why…”

Enjolras kissed his temple. “I didn’t think I was _that_ terrible at washing hair…”

Grantaire let out a watery laugh. “No,” he said, “It’s just that… no-one’s ever… I mean… I’m being an idiot… I didn’t think I would ever be… well… I didn’t think I would be worthy of such tenderness.”

Enjolras’ chest ebbed and flowed. “Of course you are, Grantaire. Of _course_ you are.”

He scrubbed at his eyes and sat up. “Let me…” he said.

With a lurch backwards, Enjolras smiled. “Ah, no,” he said, stilling Grantaire’s hands in mid-air. “I only washed it last night.”

Grantaire gave him an odd look.

“I mean, go ahead, if you want my hair to turn into straw,” Enjolras laughed, “I don’t get my hair to look _this_ good without a careful routine… Afros and frequent shampooing is a deadly mix, especially when it’s bleached…” he shook his head, a golden curl falling over his eyes.

“You mean you’re capable of having bad hair days?” Grantaire gasped, resting a hand against Enjolras’ chest and feeling each heartbeat beneath his fingers.

“You should have seen me in highschool…”

“Let me guess… You had a full on emo fringe?”

Enjolras laughed, covering his cheeks with his hands. “No. Almost as bad, though…”

“What?” Grantaire needled, linking their fingers.

“I straightened it every morning into a floppy Justin Bieber fringe…”

“No!”

“Unfortunately, yes… It was all the rage with the ballet boys…”

“Do you have pictures?”

Enjolras groaned, his head falling back against the tiles, “I regret bringing this up…”

“Courf does, doesn’t he?”

Enjolras shook his head. “I feel like if you see pictures of me in high school you’ll immediately break up with me…”

“Ah, come on!” Grantaire grinned, “I had a bowl cut when I was seven… It just shows how far we’ve come…”

Enjolras snorted. “Come on, let’s get out. My hands are getting wrinkly…”

“You’re not slick, Enjolras… that was the weakest subject change in the history of mankind.” Grantaire stood, a little warily, reaching to grab a thick towel and tuck it around himself. He stepped out of the tub, hoisted Enjolras up by the hand, and pressed a towel soft against his chest.

“One day,” Enjolras gave a laugh, “Maybe ask me in the morning when I’m not exhausted.”

Grantaire led them through to the bedroom, and found one of Enjolras’ old shirts in his drawer that had been left there some time before. “I will,” he nudged their shoulders together.

“Hm?” Enjolras was dried and already drooping on the mattress.

“I’ll ask you in the morning. And the morning after. And the morning after that, because I truly don’t believe I’ll be able to rest until I see you with a Bieber fringe…”

Enjolras laughed into the pillow, his eyes wincing to stay open. “Are you sleeping?” he managed, nuzzling into the empty space beside him.

Grantaire shook his head, feeling brightly awake. “Get some rest. I’m going to sketch for a while. I won’t be long.”

Looking up at him through sleep-soft eyes, Enjolras said, all earnest and sweet, “Thank you for tonight, Grantaire. I’m so lucky you agreed to be a part of this…”

Leaning against his doorframe, Grantaire let his head sag - a deep warmth creeping across his chest and into his cheeks. “Thank you for letting me,” he said, waiting in the silence for a moment before flicking off the lights. In the sliver of moonlight that danced through the shutters, he wished that nothing would ever change, but had the distinct feeling that it was all just about to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it's getting towards the end, we needed a bit of soft angst so here! take it! the thought of grantaire thinking he is unworthy to be loved tenderly is just... AH.. . too sad. short n sweet, with a teeensy cliffhanger at the end! what do you think?
> 
> In other NEWS! I have OFFICIALLY finished writing the fic! so from here on out the uploads will probably be quite speedy - I want to spread them out a little bit so I can get a head start on writing my NEXT E/R fic... keep those eyes peeled! To give a tiiiiinnny hint about what it's about I shall say this: c o t t a g e c o r e. That is all. Hopefully you'll LOVE IT!
> 
> yes! As always, please let me know all your thoughts! hearing what you have to say is truly TRULY the highlight of my lockdown week! hope you're all healthy and happy as can be in these times! kisses! <3


	32. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire try to make breakfast without getting distracted, Éponine revels in her diva moment, and Grantaire thinks the ballet shoe workshop is about to be hit with a major surprise.

The morning was spent in a heavenly bubble of just the two of them - wrapped up in each other in all the ways lovers entangle themselves. By early afternoon, they finally made their way into the kitchen - both giddy and high on the morning.

They had started off trying to make pancakes - but it had dissolved into absurdity when Enjolras had bet he could balance the pan on his calf.

“No way,” Grantaire snorted, “For how long?”

“Hours.”

“Shut up, no way…” he grinned, “I bet it would just tip right off.”

“My calves are thick,” Enjolras had summer sunshine in his eyes.

“Look, there’s no denying you’ve got good calves, but no way could you just balance a pan on them for _hours_ on end.”

Enjolras raised his brows, lifted his leg to a ninety-degree angle and balanced the empty pan on it. The wobbles Grantaire expected were nowhere to be seen. “Try me,” Enjolras said. “Put the bowl on my knee.”

“Oh my God, you’re ridiculous,” Grantaire said, marvelling at how still the mixing bowl and pan stayed on Enjolras’ leg. “How are you doing this?”

“You underestimated me,” Enjolras laughed - though somehow his leg stayed perfectly stationary. He reached out for the bag of flour and stretched out, beginning to fill the mixing bowl.

“This is going to end disastrously,” Grantaire shook his head, “Ah! Enjolras! You’re not even measuring the amounts!”

Enjolras continued to throw in the ingredients, his movements growing increasingly dramatic and graceful - until his precarious pancake making appeared like a dance of its own.

“Oh my God,” Grantaire covered his face when Enjolras started doing pliés, bending his left knee, bobbing up and down while the ingredients stayed rested balanced on his right leg. “Stop,” he laughed, “Ah!” Grantaire gave a joking exclamation when Enjolras began to hop.

“Believe me yet?” Enjolras said, letting out a breathless giggle between jumps.

“I’ll never doubt you again!” Grantaire said, over-dramatic, pressing his hands to his heart, “Just please stop or I’m going to die.”

“D’you reckon I could pirouette?”

“Nooo…” Grantaire was laughing so hard his entire body shook. “I mean - I’m sure you can, just please don’t.”

Enjolras flicked his leg up and the bowl went flying. Like a ringmaster, he caught the mixing bowl in one hand, the frying pan in the other and gave a flourishing bow. He winked, and began spooning the pancake mixture into the pan.

Grantaire laughed and hoisted himself onto the counter, legs dangling. “How did I fall in love with such a talented show-off?”

“I am trying desperately to impress you,” Enjolras joked, “Is it working?”

“Massively,” Grantaire grinned. Leaning down, he arched his neck slightly, bringing their lips flush together. Enjolras smiled against his skin, still smelling of rose and lavender thanks to Éponine’s bubble bath.

Grantaire shifted, making to lift a hand to cup Enjolras’ chin, but as his palm shot forwards, he felt the clatter of plastic against his knuckles too late. He pulled back sharply, clunking the back of his head against the overhead cupboard and flailed his arms for the mixing bowl. They both stared, almost in slow-motion, as the bowl flipped in mid-air, flour and sugar leaping up before coating the floor.

“No!” they both said in unison. Caught in contagious laughter, they both tried to scoop it back into the bowl with their hands, collapsing against each other and laughing even more.

“After all of your showing off, as well!” Grantaire giggled.

“I think you mean _‘all of my hard work.’_ ” Enjolras said, mock-gravely, “I’m deeply hurt and offended.”

Grantaire scoffed, patting off his flour-painted palms. They looked up in sync, catching eyes over the spilled ingredients. Their smiles grew until they took up their entire faces. Their gazes danced across the disastrous mess and lingered on each other. “To be honest,” Grantaire said, feeling flirty and dangerous, “I’m not even hungry… Are you?”

Enjolras laughed. “Not for _pancakes_ ,” he said, a grin curling up his lips. He let his fingers reach up to grip onto Grantaire’s knee.

Beneath his palm, a chalky flour handprint was pressed to Grantaire’s jeans. “You’re so messy,” Grantaire said, leaning forward to nip at Enjolras’ neck. “And your clothes are much nicer than mine… Wouldn’t want them to get ruined…”

“What are we going to do about that?” Enjolras said, already flicking open his buttons as quick as humanly possible.

Grantaire grabbed his wrists. “Appreciate the enthusiasm… but not in the _kitchen._ We could traumatise a poor Cosette and Marius if they show up…”

“Cosette and Marius?” Enjolras said, letting himself be dragged out of the kitchen into Grantaire’s room. He kicked the door shut behind them and shed his shirt onto the floor. “Why would they…?”

“Long story,” Grantaire said, ripping his own t-shirt over his head, “They’re seeing Éponine.”

“Huh? Both of them?”

“Yeah. They’ve throupled up.”

Enjolras paused, one finger stilled in the loops of Grantaire’s jeans. “… _Marius?”_ he said after a moment.

“Uh-huh,” Grantaire shrugged, “I was just as surprised.”

“... _What?”_ Enjolras looked away, lost in thoughts, before Grantaire rocked his hips, tugging them backwards by his belt hooks. “I - I just - Actually, I don’t care right now.” He gave a yelp as they tumbled back onto the mattress.

Grantaire felt a graze of teeth against his collarbone and melted into the moment. He let his eyelids flutter shut, the sensation of lips against skin and fingers curling at his waistband, so all-encompassing that the world fell away from beneath him.

“Sorry,” Enjolras said suddenly, jolting backwards. Grantaire peeled open his starry-eyes, raising an eyebrow. “ _Marius?”_

 _“Ugh,_ ” Grantaire complained, tugging at Enjolras’ hands, coaxing him back, “Please stop thinking about _Marius_.”

“I’m sorry… but _what?”_

Grantaire groaned and flipped to kneel over Enjolras. He gently pressed the other man’s shoulders down into the mattress, letting his fingers bump down over planes of muscle and skin, nudging their legs together. He kissed down the length of Enjolras’ torso, paying special attention to the freckle on his left hipbone and the soft fuzz below his bellybutton. Enjolras’ chest raised with breath, and the room was filled with the sound of a choked gasp.

“Are you still thinking about him?” Grantaire said, swiping his thumbnail across Enjolras’ ribs.

“Shh,” Enjolras said, biting his lips pink, “Who?”

~*~

Evening rolled around and Éponine sauntered in, looking extremely smug.

“What’re you doing down there?” she said, looking down at Grantaire.

“I spilled some flour earlier,” Grantaire said, sweeping up with a dustpan and brush.

“Flour?” She squinted. “What were you using flour for?”

“Pancakes…”

“ _You_ were cooking pancakes?”

“Alright, no need to sound _so_ shocked,” he laughed.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” she said, dropping onto the sofa, “You did spill them all over the floor.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Touché. Anyway, what’s going on with you?”

Éponine gave a long, luxurious laugh as she stretched out. “Goodness, I’m just _so_ tired…” she said melodiously. “I did not sleep a _wink._ I’m sure you are as equally exhausted, my love. Let’s nap the rest of the day away.”

“Actually I got a super early night.”

“Lame,” Éponine snorted.

“Even lamer is that I full on sobbed when he washed my hair.”

Éponine narrowed her eyes and turned slowly to look at him. “You _what?”_ She pouted her lips. “Yikes. Sounds like my night was way better.”

“It was actually really nice,” Grantaire grinned, slumping next to her on the sofa. “So… Marius and Cosette?”

“Actually, my evening had a lot of tears as well. Marius is a _big_ crier.”

“Bless him.”

“It was very endearing. A bit tragic, but endearing.” She kicked her heeled boots off and stretched her toes. “No-one has ever cried after sex with me before. I don’t know if I should be flattered… or…”

“Poor Marius,” Grantaire said.

“Oh no, he was definitely happy. Like… out-of-body-experience happy. I think he was just overwhelmed. I don’t think his sweet hetero brain could process that he wasn’t dreaming.”

Grantaire snorted. “Any good?”

Éponine looked into the distance, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. After a brief pause she nodded. “Yeah…” she said, “He’s very cute… Very… earnest. Good at following instructions.” She gave Grantaire a wink.

“So you’re happy with the grand throuple plan, then?”

“Darling, it’s been the best idea of my year. Besides being friends with a gorgeous shoemaker who’s dating a gorgeous dancer who got me a dance performance,” she grinned, squeezing Grantaire close, “Weren’t we fabulous?”

“You were marvellous, darling,” Grantaire nudged her in the ribs, “Divine. Excellent. You changed the world of dance.”

“I could listen to this all day,” Éponine smacked a kiss against his cheek, “But I actually am exhausted so I think I’m going to crash. What are your plans?”

“I’m just going to be lazy,” he said, “I’ve been making so many shoes in my spare time that I haven’t had a day off in literal months.”

“Laze with me,” she implored, “Can you get us some blankets? And maybe some teas? And also - hey, don’t raise your eyebrows at me, I’m a recovering dancer one night after her grand showcase. Please show a little more respect. Could you also bring a snack of some sort?”

Grantaire shook his head slowly, eyes disapproving, as he traipsed off to fulfil her duties.

~*~

“This is kind of a bit boring now, isn’t it?”

Grantaire looked up from the pink satin in his hands and shrugged. Feuilly was paused over his needle and thread, looking wistful.

“It’s much more fun when you’re actually with the dancers,” Grantaire’s copper-haired associate mused.

Grantaire blew out a chuckle. “I think it depends on the dancers,” he said.

Feuilly threw another shoe onto his finished pile and gave a dramatic pout. “D’you think Enjolras will need us to work for him again?”

“He’s certainly not going to stop any time soon, so I’d wager we’ve got a pretty good chance,” Grantaire said, stamping his initial into the shank of his shoe.

After the minutes dragged by in cosy silence - the background noise of other shoemakers blurring away - Feuilly looked up again. “Do the guys know that you’re dating your ballerina?” he asked.

Grantaire looked around the workshop and raised a brow. “They’ve got no idea,” he said.

Feuilly suddenly cleared his throat loudly and stood up. “Gentlemen!” he said, clapping his hands. Grantaire sunk into his seat, lips curling into a badly concealed smile. “I have some vital news!”

The craftsmen in the workshop all turned to pay attention.

“R…” Feuilly started, yanking Grantaire up and raising his arm like a champion boxer, “Has officially started dating one of his ballerinas…” He looked around, as though waiting for applause. “He’s living the shoemaker’s dream!”

A volley of shrugs and thumbs up passed through the room.

“Where’s the enthusiasm, eh?” Feuilly’s triumphant pose drooped.

One of the guys - Brevet - usually a man of very few words, shrugged. “It’s not that surprising,” he said.

“I think we all knew,” the Old Bishop said, hardly looking up from his shoes.

“You _knew?”_ Grantaire said, choking on his shock.

“The blonde one,” Brevet said, “The one who’s always calling you on the intercom.”

“The one who you’re always sneaking off to meet,” said a shoemaker by the name of Champmathieu.

“Not _always…”_ Grantaire said, agog.

“The one you snog on the stairs…”

“I-” Grantaire blinked, a blush tingeing his cheeks. “Um… What?”

“Dude, I was stood behind you on the stairs once and I had to ask you to move like five times,” Brevet said.

“Good to see our R is using company time effectively,” said the Old Bishop, furrowing his bushy, white eyebrows, though his eyes twinkled warmly.

“Right… well…” Grantaire sat down, “Thanks for bringing it to attention, Feu.”

Feuilly gave a wink. “Sorry,” he whispered, grinning as he started to sew again.

Just as everyone had turned back to their work, the intercom buzzed.

Every eye turned to Grantaire, who in turn flushed a rather pretty shade of scarlet.

“I’ll get it,” he said, tone gruff. The walk past everyone felt ten thousand times longer than it had ever felt before. “Hello?”

“Hey,” came a familiar voice.

Grantaire glanced around to notice a few smirks, and he hid his face behind the metal intercom.

“Enjolras,” he said, “What’s going on?”

A brief silence passed.

“Hello?” Grantaire said.

In a very small voice Enjolras said, “Can I come and see you?”

“Um, are you alright?” Grantaire said, at once forgetting about the roomful of eavesdroppers.

“I just…” Enjolras cleared his throat, “Can we just talk?”

“Of course, of course,” Grantaire said, “I’ll buzz you in.” He did as he promised and half-ran to the door. In the last moment he froze and faced the workshop. “Um…” he scratched the back of his head, “Um, I’m just…”

The Old Bishop waved a hand. “Go on, R.”

Grantaire’s face split into a grin and he skirted out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time until he barrelled right into Enjolras. “Hi,” he said, tip-toeing to kiss his cheeks.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispered, melting into his touch, “I - I don’t know what to do.”

“Huh?” Grantaire looked up, noticing the rawness of Enjolras’ eyes. “What’s going on?”

Enjolras sunk his face into his hands and buttoned his shoulders tight. “I- I…” he said, his voice clipped, a slight waver betraying his attempted composure, “I just need you for a moment.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Grantaire said, stilling the tremble in Enjolras’ hands, and guiding them both down to sit on the dusty, footstep-eroded steps. “You’ve got me.” He cradled Enjolras’ chin, who sunk into the warmth of his palm like it was a prayer, a hiccup of a sob echoing in his chest, “You’ve got me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nooooo! what is this angst doing arriving at this late chapter? I'm SORRY. It breaks my heart to make Enjolras cry but all will be revealed soon! 
> 
> is there any trope better than the old baking nd making out trope? I DON'T THINK SO. Even though here the baking is a total disaster..... like you had TWO jobs e/r... and you failed at one and were extremely enthusiastic about the other... is that a success?  
> also my favourite running theme of this fic is R thinking him and Enjolras are super subtle and not obvious about dating and then being shocked EVERY SINGLE TIME people are like "Um.... yeah... we KNOW..." 
> 
> what did you think of this chapter? I'm so SAD this fic is nearly over BUT I'm so excited for the ending! (I shall be mysterious and say nothing more.) Please let me know all of your thoughts - reading and replying to comments is sincerely the best part of lockdown!!!! thanks for reading! <33


	33. Corps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis de l'ABC assemble to help Enjolras.

Once the swell of Enjolras’ tears had ebbed away, he scrubbed roughly at his eyes. “Sorry,” he didn’t catch Grantaire’s gaze, “Sorry. You must think I’m a mess.”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Grantaire said, anchoring himself by placing a hand on Enjolras’ knee.

Enjolras shuffled, scrabbling in his pocket. He reached his phone and unlocked it with shaking fingers. “I got an email this morning from the National Ballet…”

“What?”

“Yeah. They threatened to sue me for everything I ever earned with them.”

_“What?”_ Grantaire spat, “Surely they can’t do that! What the hell?”

“I don’t _think_ they can,” Enjolras said, shakily.

“Why are they doing this?”

“They’re saying we stole their intellectual property and choreography,” Enjolras said, “Which is utter nonsense - because Courf choreographed it from scratch. I don’t know. There were clearly parodied similarities, but we didn’t just dance the whole show. I think they’re just insanely pissed off that me and Cosette made fun of them after they fired us.”

“Enjolras. They have no legal grounds to sue you. They’re just trying to scare you.” Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’ knee.

“That’s not all, though,” Enjolras said, eyes glazing again, “They spoke to the press…” he pressed his lips together - the skin bitten pale. “It’s all you see if you Google my name.”

“What did they say?”

“That I- Ugh,” he palmed his eyes, “Sorry, this shouldn’t be about me. I’m just…” he breathed heavily, “Just read it.”

Grantaire took the phone, confronted with a picture of Enjolras - much younger and much thinner, caught unaware by a stage door, cigarette curled in his fingers, mouth contorted in mid-speech. “They must have had to _really_ dig for a picture where you didn’t look amazing, huh?” Grantaire scoffed.

A scuffed, sardonic laugh grazed out of Enjolras’ mouth. “Yeah. They didn’t mention I was fourteen, and that my dance teacher bought me my cigarettes to keep my appetite down.”

Grantaire shook his head sadly. He started to read.

_‘Disgraced ex-ballet star steals from the Paris National Ballet Company.’_

He laughed. “Bit of a stretch.”

“Just read it,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire’s eyes scanned over the interview.

_‘_ _M. Enjolras once had a promising ballet career, climbing his way up the ranks at France’s most prestigious ballet corps. Now - less than a year after he starred with the National, he has been fired, and has made himself impossible to hire again. What went wrong? The young dancer’s hubris got in the way._

_While patrons spent their hard-earned paychecks to enjoy an evening at the ballet, Enjolras caused a stir by disrupting the show and dancing someone else’s solo. The National acted quickly and professionally, and both Enjolras and his co-conspirator Mme. Tholomyès, were fired the next morning. Now, word is out that Enjolras and Tholomyès have stolen fragments of the National’s show_ ‘Un Vero Amore’ _to perform in a showcase. The National’s spokesperson, Dahlia Listolier, said they were not made aware of the showcase, and had not been asked for their permission to perform the ballet._

_Other sources alleged that Enjolras has always been difficult to work with - suggesting he is snobbish and short-tempered. One anonymous female dancer commented that: ‘Enjolras always acts like he’s the best person in the room. His attempts to force men into the world of pointe are discriminatory and ridiculous. There are already so few spaces where women lead, and now he’s making it all about himself and pushing men into a female safe space.’_

_It cannot be denied that Enjolras is a talented dancer, but there are plenty of talented dancers with far smaller egos. Still, it is a shame to see a once hopeful ballet star resort to copying his old shows to an audience of a dozen people, instead of performing to the thousands that he used to. Perhaps this is a case of ballet’s golden boy flying too close to the sun. If you want to look for an example of ‘performative wokeness’ gone wrong, you need look no further than Enjolras.’_

Grantaire looked up, eyes blazing. “What absolute bullshit,” he tutted. “That’s top quality journalism, is it? Didn’t mention Les Amis or what we stand for even once.” He scrolled further down and sunk into the comment section. At once, his vision was violated with the most offensive of words. A barrage of racist and homophobic voices spilled out as far as the eye could see. The hairs on the back of Grantaire’s neck prickled. “ _God…”_ he blinked, wanting to look away, but somehow hooked in by the vileness.

“Isn’t it awful?” Enjolras said, “What if they’re right?”

Grantaire sharply turned the phone off. “ _What?”_ he widened his eyes, “ _Obviously_ they aren’t right.”

“I mean the stuff about invading a female safe space…” he sunk into his palms, “God. I feel terrible. I’ve been awful to work with? I didn’t even realise.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire shook his head, “You’re an angel. You’re amazing to work with. Where the hell did they get this anonymous dancer from? Their imagination, probably. Do I have to remind you that the first time we met, you visited the workshop just because you wanted to know everyone who was involved in making your work possible? That isn’t the action of a short-tempered diva. It’s a smear campaign, nothing more. They’re probably scared you’ll steal all their customers. Anyway... you aren't saying male dancers should overtake female dancers, you're saying that the art shouldn't be so gendered. It's totally different.”

A weak chuckle caught in Enjolras’ throat. “Thanks, Grantaire… But they _are_ right in one way. After this, no-one’s going to want to be caught dead hiring me.”

“They they’re the places you don’t _want_ to be hired by,” Grantaire coaxed Enjolras into the crook of his elbow, “Trust me. You’re going to keep doing your thing, and these backwards, prejudiced old ballet companies are going to be mad at you for being amazing. You’ve just got to make them even more mad.” Grantaire pulled him close, revelling in the body warmth they shared. “And you can’t stop until they’re absolutely furious.”

Enjolras gave a heavy sigh, the weight of his worries filtering out. “I… _God_ , I love you.”

“No need to sound so surprised,” Grantaire teased. “Hey. I’ll come over to yours tonight, and we can talk about where to go from here…”

“Okay,” Enjolras brushed his lips against Grantaire’s temple, “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“It’s nothing,” R said, “Nothing at all.”

“Do you have to get back to work?”

“Kind of,” Grantaire grimaced, “Or else I’ll be accused of snogging you on the stairs.”

Enjolras gave a surprised laugh. “I wouldn’t complain,” he said, with a creaky smile finally settling on his lips. “They’re quite a romantic setting, if you ignore the dust.”

Grantaire hoisted himself up by the bannister, and offered Enjolras a hand. “Cool down, darling,” he winked, “Not on company time.”

Enjolras made his way to standing, and paused. “Seriously, though. Thanks for… listening.”

With a brush of his lips over Enjolras’ knuckles, Grantaire stepped back. “See you tonight, lover.”

Enjolras slowly nodded, straightening his spine and fixing the alignment of buttons on his coat. When he looked back up, his eyes were filled with such warmth it almost made Grantaire stumble. When he smiled it was lovelier than a sunrise over Paris. Grantaire watched him dash down the stairs, winding around and around, his golden halo of hair flouncing with movement. When he reached the bottom, he grabbed his bike in one hand, and used the other to blow a kiss up through the storeys to Grantaire. The shoemaker instinctively curled his fingers in midair, catching Enjolras’ kiss between his palm and fingertips.

He stayed there for a moment after Enjolras had left, fingers still clasped around nothingness, frozen in place by the sweltering rush of emotions that his lover always left him with.

~*~

When he arrived at Enjolras’ apartment, the mood was sober. Courf and Combeferre gave Grantaire a grim smile as he stepped inside.

“Hi, lovely R,” Courf said glumly.

“Come on, guys,” Grantaire tried to say, “It was a great performance. Who cares what some dumb article says?” He sat at the table with them. “Onwards and upwards, eh?”

“Where’s that gorgeous cynic gone?” Courfeyrac said, tugging at Grantaire’s cheek, “I’m sure he’s in there somewhere.”

“Look,” Grantaire grinned, “If I’m the least cynical one in the room - something has gone terribly wrong. Trust me, we can get past this.”

Combeferre shot a sly smile to Enjolras. Enjolras gently bashed their shoulders together, soft, innocent and intimate. “What?” Combeferre said, “I’m just saying you have good taste.”

Enjolras flopped on the table, his hair looking rather worse for wear. “I’m just tired.”

“We know, darling,” Courfeyrac said, reaching to squeeze Enjolras’ fingertips. “And you need to process this however feels right to you. We’ll be right here.”

“Have you responded to the National?” Grantaire asked, peering at the glowing laptop on the table.

“Yeah,” ‘Ferre grimaced, “Bahorel helped. We basically just said there were no legal grounds to sue us on, and… that’s all we can really do.”

“We emailed the newspaper that published the article, but there’s no way they’ll take it down,” Courf sighed, “And it’s gotten around, now. It’s all over social media.”

Enjolras rested his chin on his hand, eyes all big and drowning in solitude. “I deactivated my accounts.”

Grantaire crossed his arms. “Guys, this is so unjust! I think you’d get social media on your side if you explained what happened.” He tilted the laptop towards him and scrolled through the hashtag. “Racist old grandparents might be pissed that you ‘ _ruined’_ a National Ballet show, but I bet most people our age would stand with us.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac both winced at each other. “I dunno,” Courfeyrac hummed, “Twitter can be a cesspit of all of the worst people in the world.”

“But it also can be an amazing platform for the voiceless to have a voice,” Grantaire said, “We can make this work to our advantage. We just need to… publish our own article to dispute them, and really get our message across.” He was whipped up in his own fervour, and finished his sentence almost breathless, surprised at himself.

“We don’t know any newspapers that will publish our side of the story, though,” Enjolras said, eyeing Grantaire, taken aback.

Grantaire paused for a moment. He shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… _yes we do_.” He stood up and grabbed his phone. “Let me make a quick call.”

~*~

Less than half an hour later, there was a heavy knock at the door. Grantaire darted to swing it open.

“Your saviour is here!”

“Hi, Marius,” Grantaire said, smiling. “Oh. And you brought the crew.”

“The more the merrier!” Marius beamed, slipping out of his coat and rushing to sit at the table.

Grantaire slowly shook his head at Éponine who fluttered her fingers in a wave and kissed a bruise-purple lipstick smear across his cheek. “Come on in,” he said, “Nice to see you, Cosette.”

Five minutes passed before there was another knock.

In piled Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta.

Feuilly texted Grantaire for the right address and arrived soon after, bag still stuffed with material scraps and papers from work.

Bahorel, Jehan and the Patron-Minette crew had all collided in the stairwell and filled the room with their loud voices as they entered.

Grantaire shut the door, and leant against it, surveying the clamour of people all perching on chair arms and sitting on the floor.

“Right,” he said, turning everyone’s eyes to him. “We need to do this properly. By this time tomorrow, we’ll have cleared Enjolras’ name. Okay?”

“Okay!” Jehan cheered, soon followed by every voice in the room.

“You heard our lovely shoemaker!” Courfeyrac said, clapping his hands, “We don’t have any time to waste!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> go team! aw I feel bad for putting enj through this but AT LEAST he has these amazing friends and bf to help him!! 
> 
> thanks so much for reading!! please let me know all your thoughts in a comment because I LOVE hearing what you think!! <33


	34. Turn Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis join forces to save Enjolras' reputation. Will their last-ditch efforts save the so called 'golden boy who flew too close to the sun'?

The screen was dark.

The focus blurred in black and white, and then a pair of eyes stared through the lens.

“My name is Enjolras,” came a voice, the shot gradually panning out to show Enjolras tying his pointe shoe ribbons. “I used to be one of the principal dancers with Paris’ National Ballet Company.”

Various clips of Enjolras dancing, tempered and elegant, flickered across the stage. He looked young, and determined and like he would do anything in the world to succeed. The next shot was the blurry footage from the night of his and Cosette’s protest - the dance that got them fired.

“I’m Cosette.” There was a shot of Cosette fixing her hair into a bun, hazy in a cloud of hairspray. “Together we founded Les Amis de l’ABC.”

“The friends of the Activist Ballet Company,” Enjolras said. “We want to make ballet an accessible place for everyone equally… No matter your gender, weight, race, disability… anything that makes you different. We want to say that anyone can be a ballerina if they want to be.”

Candid rehearsal footage of Les Amis leaping about, laughing and guiding one another drifted across the screen - the atmosphere and smiles were equally sweet and warm.

Grantaire cringed as he saw himself curled around a pair of shoes, sanding and holding a slipper up to the light. Feuilly was sat next to him, painting his shoes an earthy shade.

“I went to the same ballet school as Enjolras,” Cosette said, looking remarkably professionally in front of their home made set - complete with bedsheets as a backdrop, and phone flashlights as the only lighting. “We’ve worked together for years, and I’ve never met _anyone_ more committed to ballet and bringing equality to the art form. He’s kind, and passionate, and an amazing friend.”

Courfeyrac’s monologue had been cut to a fraction of its overall length. During filming, he gushed and praised Enjolras so much that he spoke for over ten minutes. “I choreograph for Les Amis, and Enjolras is a wonder to work with. He is inspired, forward thinking and, _god,_ that boy has too much creative vision and talent for his own good.”

Jehan looked into the camera. “Enjolras… gosh, there aren’t enough words to describe him…”

“He’s supportive,” said Musichetta.

“He’s a wonderful teacher,” Joly nodded.

“He’s generous,” Feuilly said.

“He’s understanding,” Combeferre smiled.

“He’s down-to-earth,” Éponine said.

“He’s very clever,” said Bossuet.

“And compassionate,” Bahorel looked a touch uncomfortable on camera.

“He’s very… awe-inspiring,” said Marius, his eyes wide.

“He’s…” Again, Grantaire winced while watching the footage of himself, the reverence in his voice, the softness of his gaze, “He’s just… _wonderful_.”

While they watched, Éponine snorted at Grantaire’s line and nudged his arm. “Lame,” she whispered. Grantaire rolled his eyes at her.

The footage of the talking heads of Les Amis ended and instead showed the highlights of their recent performance.

Marius had filmed during the showcase, and although he had been forced to do so discreetly, and the angles were not great, the impact of some of the flying leaps, lifts, and dazzling pointe pirouettes were immensely impressive. Their show-stopping ending - with the phrases that had been spat at them throughout their dancing life now painted on their bare flesh - was more chilling every time it was seen. The video rolled to an end, and a link to the Les Amis website flashed on the screen.

“Is it ready?” Combeferre said, exhaustedly rubbing his eyes.

“Ugh,” Courf said, “It’s perfect. Just upload it, darling. I need to get to sleep.”

“Enjolras?” Jehan said, reaching over to squeeze Enjolras’ fingertips. “What do you think.”

Enjolras’ cheeks were pink. “It kind of makes me feel weird to upload a video that’s just hyping me up,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “But you did a great job of making me feel very humble. Yeah. Upload it.”

Combeferre ceremoniously clicked the upload button, the mouse click strangely loud in the quiet of the room.

They all gave a quiet cheer, careful not to disturb any sleeping neighbours. Grantaire felt his hand grabbed by Éponine on his right, his arm squeezed by Jehan on his left, and his left fingers brushed by Enjolras across the table.

“Well…” Bahorel said, “We’ve done what we can to combat their negative image of you. Let’s hope this is the first thing that comes up when people search your name.”

“Yeah,” Marius said, somehow still bright-eyed, “We’ll make it go viral. I’ll send it to a bunch of my journalist contacts!”

“Thanks, Marius,” Enjolras said, eyes heavy with solemnity, “Thanks everyone. Seriously. It kind of was the happiest moment in my life when you all showed up to help…”

“Anytime and always, Enj,” Joly said, “It’s the least we can do for you.”

“It’s just what Les Amis de l’ABC stand for, isn’t it?” Musichetta beamed.

The conversation lulled. “What are we gonna do now?” Montparnasse said, eyes half shut and sprawled on the sofa.

“The first buses and trains will probably start in an hour or so,” Bossuet checked his watch.

Courfeyrac scoffed and shook his head. “No way. Guys. Crash here. We’ve got enough room.”

Combeferre narrowed his eyes at him. “We’ve got three beds, and…” he counted the tally of people, “And seventeen people.”

“We’ll make it work. We’ve got two sofas.” Courfeyrac began to devise a plan.

“Nah, Courf,” Bossuet shook his head, “Me, Joly and ‘Chetta only live around the corner. We’ll just walk.”

Montparnasse eyed his troupe, “Yeah. We’ll head back to ours too,” he said. Bahorel and Feuilly also volunteered to leave.

“Perfect!” Courf yawned, “Whoever wants to sleep in my bed… I _will_ be the little spoon.” He stood, “Jehan, you don’t mind a bit of a cuddle, do you?”

“Never, my darling,” Jehan said, sloping after Courfeyrac.

“Um,” Combeferre sat up straight. “If anyone wants… to share with me. I don’t... mind.” He looked around, “Um… Marius? Cosette?”

Marius turned beetroot red. “I’ll take the sofa,” he said.

“Me too,” Cosette said.

Grantaire watched as the majority of Les Amis left, his mind hazy and sleep-deprived. It felt like he was watching flickering footage from an old movie. In the midst of his reverie, he felt his hand being taken, and glanced into Enjolras’ face.

“C’mon, lover,” Enjolras said, voice mumbly and soft, “You look exhausted.”

“Mm,” Grantaire said, allowing himself to be led into Enjolras’ room, where the morning sun was already forcing itself through the shutters. They both crashed on top of the covers, still in their clothes, and almost immediately Grantaire felt his eyes drifting shut.

“I’ll never forget this,” Enjolras said quietly, against his ear.

“Hm?”

“No one has ever done something so selfless and thoughtful for me…” Enjolras said, “I’ll honestly never forget this.”

“’S just… the right thing to do…”

Enjolras fell silent, and Grantaire was sure he had fallen asleep. However, just before he drifted off himself, he heard a quiet, confessional whisper. “I’ve never felt so lucky in all of my life,” Enjolras said, “Thank God for you, Grantaire.”

“Mm,” Grantaire vocalised, “Don’t believe in God.”

“Oh,” Enjolras’ voice sounded faraway, “What do you believe in?”

Grantaire managed to croak out a final few words before he completely shattered into sleep. “Only you.”

~*~

When he finally awoke, the sun almost ready to go down again, Grantaire was half-convinced the living room would be full again, and he’d enter to a volley of chatter. That Marius would look at him in that wide-eyed, bemused way and say, “We’ve gone viral!” and the video would be overloaded with millions of views and comments supporting them. Perhaps even journalists would be begging to speak with Enjolras and he would be pulled under studio lights again and given the chance to shine and tell the truth.

He sauntered into the kitchen.

Silence.

“Um,” he said, “What are you doing there?”

Jehan opened one lazy eye. “Looking at things from a different angle,” they said with a smile, balanced perfectly in a headstand against the wall.

Grantaire laughed. “Does it help?”

“Not massively, darling, but it gives you a bit of a rush,” they winked and tumbled into a seated position, “And we all know I love a natural high.”

“Where is everyone?” Grantaire said, slumping down and leaning his back on the wall.

“Sleeping,” Jehan nodded towards the closed doors of the bedrooms, “I think we’re all a little exhausted after the showcase.”

“Any update on the video?”

Jehan shrugged. “Dunno. Haven’t checked.”

Grantaire gaped. “Are you serious? I’ve been thinking about it since I woke up…”

Jehan stretched out into a yoga pose, arching their back in cat-cow position. “Check it then,” they grinned, looking at R through the gap between their knees.

Grantaire grabbed his phone and paused. His hands hovered over the screen before he shoved it back in his pocket. “Enjolras should be here, too… But I want to let him sleep.”

“Your heart has been crafted by angels, sweet boy,” Jehan smiled.

“I’ve never been told that before,” Grantaire dropped his head back and looked at Jehan’s increasingly twisting positions.

“Then you’ve been hanging with the wrong crowd.” With a levity to their voice, Jehan’s eyes sparkled with wit. “I knew that nasty Éponine and her Patron-Minette lot were bad influences on you…”

“Piss off, Prouvaire,” came Éponine’s voice from the sofa. Grantaire jumped with such ferocity he smacked the back of his head into the wall.

“Ow,” he said, pressing at his scalp, “Thanks for the warning, Ép.”

“You should know by now that I’m usually asleep on someone’s sofa,” she said, voice muffled by sofa cushions.

“Where are your partners in crime?” he said, looking over to the hardly noticeable lump amidst the pillows.

“Marius went to class and Cosette went to the studios.” She yawned and sat upright, her hair an enormous tangled mane. “So we’re waiting on sleeping beauty, are we?”

“He _is_ beautiful when he sleeps,” Jehan commented, “Isn’t he, R?”

“And when he’s awake, too,” Grantaire grinned.

“Bleh,” Éponine scrunched her face up, “It’s too early in the morning for this sappiness.”

“Éponine, my love,” Jehan flipped upside down, balancing on their forearms. “It’s nearly five in the evening.”

Éponine looked blankly out of the window. “Time is a man-made concept,” she said after a pause. “And I try not to listen to men.” She snorted at her own joke. “Anyway, I need to shower. If Enjolras wakes up, I _forbid_ you to check the video without me…”

“We won’t,” Grantaire said, rolling his eyes fondly.

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise,” Grantaire agreed.

“You two are the cutest,” Jehan said with a smile. “I pinky promise, too, but only because I don’t want to be left out.”

“We should make secret Les Amis handshakes!” Éponine exclaimed.

“Yes!” Jehan fell out of their handstand, “You are a genius!”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow, “Don’t feed her ego,” he said, “Ép go and take your shower… I swear, the second you lock the bathroom door, Enjolras is going to wake up…”

“Fine,” Éponine said with a dramatic sigh, “Sorry that my best friend is such a bore, Jehan. Our greatness will be appreciated one day.”

“In another lifetime,” Jehan nodded soberly, before shooting her a cheeky wink.

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire laughed, pushing at Éponine’s calf with his foot, “We’ll make history one day, I’m sure. Just hurry up! I’m too stressed about this video to waste another second.”

She pulled a face and swaggered out of the room, leaving Jehan to their yoga, and Grantaire to his agitated nothingness. It did not last long until Jehan coaxed Grantaire out of his fidgeting and tried to teach him how to headstand.

~*~

With a rather sore forehead, Grantaire slumped at the table, staring at the blank laptop. Beside him, Enjolras - who had finally awoken, looked composed, besides the almost unnoticeable gnawing at the edge of his lip.

“Shall we have a look, folks?” Combeferre said, feeling a heaviness on his shoulders that they were all weighed down by.

“Should we wait until everyone’s here?” Enjolras asked, snagging at the skin around his nails.

Courfeyrac threw his hands up. “I can’t wait a moment longer! The pressure is killing me.” He pulled the laptop close and booted it up, the screen flashing blue. “We’re just checking a video on Youtube, we don’t need to assemble the entire company, my darling.”

With deft fingers, he pulled up the video they had poured their hearts and souls into the night before. “ _Oh_ ,” he said.

“ _Oh?_ ” said Enjolras, “What is it?” Enjolras tilted the laptop towards himself. “Oh…”

Grantaire peeked over Enjolras’ shoulder and the anticipation and electric nerves that had been raw all day slowly fizzled out.

Seventy-two views.

One like.

Combeferre sighed through his nose. Enjolras’ steady expression did not crack, but he picked more fervently at his nailbeds. Jehan’s face crumbled into despair.

“That’s…” Éponine said, “That’s a bit…”

“Disappointing,” Combeferre said.

“I was going to say ‘shit,’ but, yeah, disappointing works…” Éponine said, reaching out to squeeze Enjolras’ shoulder. “It’s only been a day, though. Don’t be too disheartened.”

“I’m not,” Enjolras said, though his tone said otherwise, “I wasn’t expecting it to have ten-million views, or anything…”

Courfeyrac sighed. “It would be nice if it did, though.”

Combeferre snapped the laptop shut. “Life is never that easy. We all know that. Tea, anyone?”

The rather gloomy troupe all murmured their tea orders and sat in pensive silence while the kettle hissed away.

As they sipped from steaming mugs, they discussed little details about future rehearsals, and what was coming next, but the video with its seventy-two views clouded the air. While they fervently tried to act as though they were not avoiding the topic of the video, Éponine’s phone trilled.

“Hey,” she said, the crinkle of speaker phone static buzzing from between her hands.

“Éponine!” Marius breathed, his inhales sounding a little jagged, “Are you still with Les Amis?”

“Yeah, darling,” she said, looping a curl of hair around her fingertip, “D’you want me to meet you at Cosette’s?”

“No!” Marius’ breathing was now so laboured it seemed as though he was running a marathon. “Stay right there!”

“What’s going on?” Éponine said, raising one eyebrow at Grantaire, who shrugged silently.

“Just wait there, okay?” Marius gasped, “And let me in… in about fifteen minutes. And make sure everyone’s dressed and it looks tidy, okay?”

“Wait, why?” Éponine scanned the room of scruffy, pyjama-clad people, her eyes widening a touch.

“You’ll see! You’ll see!” Marius said, “Look, I gotta go! See you in a minute!”

The phone beeped into silence and they all looked at each other in mild distress.

Courfeyrac stretched his lips into a grimace. “Is he _alright?”_

“Yeah, he’s Marius, he’ll be fine… That boy has the bounce-back abilities of a rubber ball, honestly,” Éponine said, standing up, “Well, what are we waiting for? We need to look presentable.”

Grantaire gave a groan. “If this is anything less than a miracle, I’m gonna be fuming. I feel too lazy to get changed.”

Enjolras' eyebrows knitted together. "What does he mean?"

Grantaire shrugged, "Knowing Marius... he's probably found a cent on the pavement and wants to show us all."

“Go!” Éponine laughed and gave him a shove, “Everyone, go!”

They all began to neaten the room, tidying the clutter of wine bottles, bedsheets, and filming equipment out of the way.

By the time the doorbell rang, the living room was immaculate (though only because all of the junk had been shoved into the bedrooms and locked away.) Éponine, in a pair of Courfeyrac’s dance leggings, a spectacularly hideous shirt from the back of Combeferre’s closet and one of Enjolras’ enormous jumpers pulled the door open.

Marius stood panting, cheeks ruddy and eyes bright. “ _This…_ ” he said, with a flourish behind him, “Is the answer to all our problems…”

A man in a thick, dark yellow overcoat stepped forwards.

“ _This…_ ” Marius said with a deference worthy of Gods themselves in his voice, “Is _Jean Valjean.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uuummmMM PLOT TWIST! we love a jvj swooping in at the last minute to save the day moment (the barricade parallels oH MY! but no one is dead here... so...) wow there is only one chapter left now!! I'm SO SAD!!! I'm going to miss these ballet les amis SO MUCH!!??!?! honestly having this soft lovely au to dive into and write for has been SUCH a saving grace in this pandemic (an insight into my brain over the past 9 months: "oh ur sad? stressed that the world is ending?? HOW ABOUT a healthy dose of yearning, fingertips brushing, soft forehead kisses and SWEET angel boys, gals and nb souls for a bit of escapism?? bless the fact that my coping mechanism is writing S O F T A U 's right?!) 
> 
> I will save the sappiness for the next chapter (whICH is VERY EMOTIONAL but I will say NO MORE) but honestly all the kudos and comments you have left have just been so so so appreciated because there is truly NOTHING I love more than hearing what you think about this fic and squealing with ya in the comments ! i ! loVE ! IT ! sooo to anyone who has ever left a message ILY you're an angel and just know that whatever you said is stored forever in my soul and will N E V E R be set free lol. thanks so much for reading!!! I will see you soon for the VERY LAST CHAPTER D: !!! let me know what you thought!!! tysm! <333


	35. Finalé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later.

_-One year later.-_

Today was going to be a pretty big day.

Grantaire arrived at work, looking up at the towering, ramshackle brick building he had arrived at almost every morning for the past four years. He buzzed himself in, taking his time as he climbed the twisting stairs, the steps scuffed by a lifetime of rushing feet. The oak bannister felt cool against his palm, and he glanced down to the base of the corridor, remembering the moment his life changed when a ballet dancer had pushed through those doors and tangled Grantaire into his life.

He was late, the mid-morning sun painting the workshop golden, but he made his way to his desk without any particular rush.

“Ah, R…” The Old Bishop said, leaning on the edge of Grantaire’s worktable, eyes fond, “Picking up your last bits?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, folding up a skein of his silk, a few rogue ribbons and his fabric scissors. “I’m almost done now.”

“I should be furious at that dancer of yours for stealing away my two youngest and brightest,” The Old Bishop smiled, “But I’m happy for you, R. I really am.”

Grantaire felt a bashful blush creep into his cheeks. “Thanks, Bishop… I’m really excited… A bit terrified, but excited.”

“Hey, if it all goes terribly, we’ve always got room for another desk or two,” the Bishop winked and clapped him on the shoulder, “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got no lack of work since you handed all your clients over…”

“You’re welcome,” Grantaire grinned. “You’ve got some really great ones, I promise. Maybe you’ll even find the ballerina of your dreams from my ex-customers…”

“Ha,” the Old Bishop said, beginning to walk away, “Perhaps if you’ve been selling pointe shoes to pensioners…” he turned, looking Grantaire up and down with his piercing stare, “Thank you for all of your hard work over the years, my boy. Any time you need advice from the best shoemaker in Paris… give me a call.” He smiled and ambled off.

Grantaire tucked his belongings into his bag. Glancing across the empty planes his wooden work desk, scarred by hammering and sanding and sawing, but never so clean and bare, he felt a strange sense of wistfulness pass over him. He waved his goodbyes to the men he had worked alongside for years and steadfastly tramped back down the stairs, hand feeling particularly heavy as he pulled the weighty door closed with a clunk.

~*~

“Darling, R!” Courfeyrac hopped up from his seat and bounded towards Grantaire, grabbing his bag and bustling him through the corridor, “We’ve been waiting for you! How are you feeling?”

“A little weird, to be honest,” Grantaire said.

“Ah, that’s the best way to feel, my gorgeous, brave boy,” Courfeyrac squeezed his arm, “Well… Introducing you to your new home…!”

He pushed open a door and nudged Grantaire inside, leaving him to tread across the threshold alone.

The sun made the wooden floor look like honey, and the windowsill was covered in sprawling house plants. In the centre of the room, a brand new, clean and unscratched work desk stood, stately and majestic in the light. Rolls of silk in a whole range of skin tones were piled into a pyramid, matching ribbons were wound neatly and kept in a separate basket. A sewing machine sat silently in the corner, next to a vice and a range of hammers and saws. A thick, emerald green, velvet chair was tucked under the desk. Grantaire went and sat, his hands smoothing over the unmarred surface of his new workbench. A sigh grazed from his lungs.

“Oh, you look perfect,” Courfeyrac said, “This is _just_ where you’re meant to be,” he quickly snapped a picture of Grantaire looking content. “What do you think?”

Grantaire felt his breath coming out shakily, his throat oddly tight. “It’s just… it’s just perfect.”

Courf clapped and gave a whoop. “I’m so glad you love it! Anything for the best shoemaker in all of Paris, eh?”

“Thanks, Courf,” Grantaire said, too overwhelmed to catch Courfeyrac’s eyes, “Thanks so much.”

“No need to thank little old _me_ ,” Courfeyrac said, “We have good old Monsieur Valjean to thank for this!”

Grantaire gazed around in wonder again before shaking his head. “It will take me a while to get used to this. Where’s Feuilly?”

Courfeyrac straightened, “I’ll take you right over to him…” he led them both to the adjacent door, “You’re neighbours…”

“Good,” Grantaire said, “I don’t think I can work if Feuilly’s not in earshot…”

“My ears are burning!” Feuilly said, sticking his head out of the door. “Isn’t this insane?” He incoherently gestured at his own workshop and gawped wordlessly.

“I’ll leave you two to nerd out about silk, or whatever it is you shoemakers do,” Courfeyrac said with a flourish, kissing them both on the cheek.

“Did you get the last of your stuff from the workshop?” Feuilly asked, his hair extra rumpled from running his fingers through it, as he often did when excited.

“Yeah,” Grantaire nodded, noting that Feuilly’s room was almost identical to his, only Feuilly had a plain black chair, unlike Grantaire’s green velvet seat. “I said my goodbyes… It’s weird, isn’t it?”

“Bittersweet,” Feuilly said, nodding in agreement, “I cried in front of the Old Bishop, which was immensely embarrassing.”

Grantaire scoffed. “I hope that isn’t toxic masculinity, my friend…”

“Not embarrassing for _me_ … Lord knows I’ve shed a tear or two in that workshop before… No. It was immensely embarrassing for the Old Bishop. I think he was so flustered that he would have fired me, if I wasn’t already leaving.” Feuilly laughed and ran a hand over his rolls of silk. “Have you seen the man himself?”

Grantaire shook his head.

“I think they’re all in the main studios,” Feuilly said, sitting at his desk and rolling out a stretch of dark brown silk. He smoothed his palms over the material, slowly and reverently. “God. Isn’t this the most exciting thing in the world?” he beamed, teeth peeking from behind blush pink lips, nose scrunching, “I’m never going to complain about work again.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of unbelievable…” Grantaire said, eyes taking in all of the moment so he would be able to remember it for years to come. “Thanks, Feuilly. I… we’ve… well, thanks for sticking with me, mate.”

“Go on, R. They’ll want you in the studios.” Feuilly smiled so broadly that his eyes squeezed shut. “Good luck!”

He waved off Feuilly’s comment and nodded, straightening his shirt, fluffing up his hair with a hand. He rushed off down the bright, airy corridors and went into the studio. The smell of fresh paint and sanded wood filled his nostrils. The bundle of dancers in the corner all looked around at the sound of the door clunking, and rushed up towards him.

“Lovely R!” Jehan said, barrelling into his chest and picking him up with a spin.

Musichetta squeezed his hands, Joly kissed his cheeks, Combeferre gave his shoulder a nudge. Bahorel and Bossuet, who had been slumped in the corner, conversing over a sketchbook and legal pad at length, both clapped Grantaire’s hands in unique, elaborate handshakes.

“Oh my God,” Grantaire said, turning to look at the entire room, the ceiling-length mirrors, the pine barres, “It looks _incredible_.”

“Doesn’t it?” Joly said, grinning so widely it looked like his cheeks were going to burst, “It’s like everything I’ve ever dreamed of!” Bossuet’s lips curved at the sight of his lover’s happiness.

Combeferre leant against the upright piano in the corner, flushed, eyes dazed below his glasses, “I can’t believe this is all ours, now.”

“We could literally rehearse all night long,” Jehan said, executing a leap and a twist in the air, landing perfectly.

“Ugh,” Musichetta laughed, “Don’t give Enjolras any ideas…”

“Where is he?” Grantaire asked.

“They’re recording a promo video in the teaching studios,” Combeferre said, pointing through the other set of doors. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem if you sneak into the back…”

Grantaire gave a wink, and crossed the length of the studio. He wandered through the hall, catching sight of the teaching studio, and silently entered. He stayed pressed against the wall, trying not to attract attention.

Marius squinted into a camera, making notes in an enormous, overflowing notebook. Jean Valjean stood beside him, mumbling a few remarks that Marius instantly scribbled down. A gaggle of children stood in perfectly turned out first position, wobbling into pliés, bouncing on their toes.

Grantaire tried not to beam.

The tiny shoes he had been working on for weeks were all in front of him. This time, he had not been working on professional pointe shoes, but beginners flat ballet slippers, designed in all of the skin shades imaginable.

Jean Valjean twisted his head and noticed Grantaire watching. He lifted a hand in a wave and smiled. Grantaire grinned back.

This was all thanks to Jean Valjean.

The man in a yellow coat who Marius had dragged into Enjolras’ apartment a year ago. Though rather unassuming, he had told them he was a patron of the arts and that he had amassed a small fortune while mayor of a small village called Montreuil-sur-Mer. He had been delivering a lecture to Marius’ university class, and Marius had been so enthusiastic that Valjean had agreed to meet with Les Amis, and asked Enjolras to pitch Les Amis to him.

At the time, Enjolras - who had been asleep twenty minutes prior - somehow had managed to turn his charm up to full intensity, and had simply dazzled Valjean. He spoke with the fire of stars in his breastbone, and echoed the voices of all those that had been silenced.

Jean Valjean, like most everybody else, fell a little in love with the idea of Enjolras.

The next few months had been filled with a hectic tornado of agents, managers and journalists, all vying for a moment of Enjolras’ time. The video they had released gradually racked up views - though it was not the viral sensation they had hoped, it turned some important eyes towards Enjolras, and he had amassed a small army of loud supporters online. Jean Valjean arranged showcase after showcase, meaning Les Amis often rehearsed for fourteen hour days, six times a week. Though filled with gratitude and inspiration, the long commutes to the studio every day was wearing them all down.

A few months ago, Jean Valjean had just shrugged nonchalantly, and said, “It won’t be forever, Les Amis. I’ve bought a new set of studios for us… There are apartments on the top floor, so on long days you won’t have to commute back home.”

Then, like an enormously wealthy fairy godmother, he had spent weeks sorting out the studio space, furnishing them with pianos, barres, the shoemaking desks, and fully stocked apartments. Whenever anyone tried to thank him, or turn down his generosity, he got gruff and embarrassed and waved them away.

When Grantaire had asked him why he had done so much for them, he said, roughly, “It’s just important, isn’t it? The next generation deserves to inherit a better ballet than this generation were given.”

Now here that next generation were, dancing joyously in shoes that matched their skin tones - that they would never have to think of pancaking or painting in acrylic paint. 

Grantaire already had dozens of requests piling into his inbox for flat and pointe shoes. Some professional ballet organisations had seen the buzz around Enjolras, and promptly ordered stacks of shoes for their few dancers of colour. More importantly, he had a whole folder of overly polite, tentatively worded emails, from youth corps, and voluntary organisations. In these emails he had read stories of countless dancers who had never been represented before, and could not afford to buy shoes for entire companies. He discovered voluntary dance schools that provided free dance lessons in impoverished areas, community groups that taught ballet in school halls and old warehouses, giving opportunity to people who had been told they were not welcome in the elitist ballet world. In these emails, there were question marks over costs, and discounts, but a thousand times more enthusiasm than from the professional companies. This afternoon, Grantaire would sit at his new desk and start to respond - telling them that, _yes,_ these ballet shoes are made for revolutionary dancers, and that Les Amis de l'ABC put aside fifty percent of their shoes to donate to companies that needed them. Even Grantaire's cynical heart could not help but melt into a warm, fluttering mess when he thought of all the good that Enjolras was doing.

Grantaire looked up to the front of the class, where Enjolras stood, back straight, a warm smile overtaking his face.

“Beautiful pliés, all,” he said, clapping his hands together, “Now, let’s all take a seat on the floor. Mademoiselle Cosette is going to run us through the next exercise.”

Cosette sat on the floor, stretching out her legs in front of her, smoothing her floaty tulle skirt across her thighs. The little children gazed at her, entranced. Her princess aura spellbound them all. “Okay, lovelies!” she beamed, “Point those toes. How beautiful! Remember, whenever we dance, we want to try and keep our toes this lovely. Lovely toes…” she gestured at her perfectly arched feet, “Silly toes,” she flexed her feet towards the ceiling, “We _never_ want silly toes.” The kids hung on her every word. “Unless we’re stretching, like now! So show me your silly toes!” A giggle went around the room.

While Cosette taught, Marius gestured to Enjolras. They slipped out into the corridor with the camera, and Grantaire knew Enjolras was filming a speech for the new studios. When Marius returned, but Enjolras didn’t, Grantaire felt his chest feel suddenly tight. Marius gave him a goofy thumbs up, and Grantaire reciprocated, before closing the door behind him. It had taken it’s time, but Marius had worn him down with intense displays of earnestness and wide-eyed sweetness every time he was at the apartment. Like a lost duckling searching for a mother, Marius had formed a strange bond with Grantaire, who now felt utterly, exasperatedly fond of the boy.

Enjolras was leant against the wall, drinking from a reusable glass bottle, typing fervently one-handed on his phone.

“Emails?” Grantaire asked.

At his voice, Enjolras startled, eyes instantly softening. “Emails,” he shook his head, “It’s only day one, and it's already never-ending, isn’t it?”

“Would you want it any other way?”

Enjolras laughed. “No,” he leant down to kiss Grantaire, their lips brushing in gentle greeting - although they had seen each other that morning, they found each others lips whenever they could. “What do you think of your new workshop?”

“It’s perfect.” Grantaire looked around the hallways. “Beyond perfect…”

Suddenly a loud whistle pierced through the air. Grantaire swung his head around to see Éponine stomping through the corridor in her platform boots. “Hey, lovebirds. Do you mind if I steal away my lovely R for a moment?”

Enjolras gave a shrug, letting Grantaire’s hands slide out of his own.

When they had slipped into the closest room, Grantaire gave her a long look. “What?” he said.

“ _What?_ ” she echoed, “Am I not allowed to say congratulations to my most darling friend on such a momentous day?”

“It’s only a new workshop,” he said slyly.

She arched a brow. “You _know_ what I mean.” She hopped onto the windowsill, her boots knocking on the wall. “How do you feel?”

Grantaire sank himself into the emotions that were simmering heavily in his throat. “Good,” he said. “Happy. Really, _really,_ happy.”

She pursed her lips to hide her smile and she nodded. “That’s the main thing. That you’re happy… I’m really proud of you, R.”

He turned pink. “Ugh, sappy,” he commented, covering his cheeks with his hands.

She grinned, yanking him towards her and pressing a loud kiss to his forehead. “I’m proud of you, and I love you, and you’re a wonderful friend, and you’re a God among men, and did I mention I _love you?”_ she messed up his hair, “Stop blushing, or I’ll have to compliment you more.”

“Thanks, Ép,” he said trying to smooth down his now static fuzz of hair. “You know I love you too.” He pulled back. “Hang on a moment, what are you even doing here? I thought Patron-Minette only had the studios on Wednesdays…”

“Can a gal not just come to gush about her best friend at his new workplace?” she said, face splitting into a grin as he sucked at his teeth. “Okay, fine. I’m waiting to go on a lunch date…”

“Ooh,” he shimmied his shoulders, “Going anywhere nice?”

She rolled her eyes. “Going on a lunch date with Cosette, Marius and _Jean Valjean_.”

Grantaire snorted. “And so the trio becomes a quartet… I didn’t know you were into older guys…”

She groaned. “Shut up,” she shook her head. “They’re both obsessed with him, I swear. I mean, obviously we’re all grateful for his generosity… blah, blah, blah, but they’re so in love with him, I honestly think they’re trying to get him to adopt them both.”

With a laugh he shook his head. “Well, have an amazing date,” he gave a wink, “With Papa Valjean.”

She pulled a face. “I take back all that stuff about you being a God among men. You’re a snake among men.” She tugged at one of his curls again, intent on destroying his attempts at neatness. “Go on. You don’t want to keep your boyf hanging about…” She pushed at his shoulder. “Hope it goes well.”

“Shh,” he protested, blowing her a kiss as he nudged open the door. “See you later.”

She looked at him for a long moment, a hand pressed against her heart. “Stop stalling,” she laughed, “Go on!”

Grantaire sidled back to Enjolras, who was still emailing fervently. “Hey, are you on a break?”

Enjolras nodded, “Yeah, Cosette’s teaching the second half of the class. I’ve got…” he checked his phone, “About an hour before the next class. You want to grab something to eat?”

Grantaire cleared his throat, scratching at the back of his scalp. “I’m not hungry,” he said, “Just, um… come with me?”

Enjolras gave him an odd look, raising one brow. “Where?”

Grantaire winked and tugged at Enjolras’ hand, “That’d be telling. Come on.”

He pulled them up the flights of stairs.

“Are you taking me to the apartments?” Enjolras laughed, “Those are for _professional_ sleeping only…”

“I’m not taking you to the apartments,” Grantaire said, taking them up another storey of steps, past the apartment doors.

They spiralled up and up until they reached the fire doors. 

Enjolras gave him a long look, tilting his head. “Aw,” he said, “I hope the view is just as good as from our old rented studios…”

“Of course it will be,” Grantaire said, “ _And_ we can come here any time we want… and we won’t be locked out in the cold all night, because we’ll have the key!”

“Typical, R,” Enjolras said, tone teasing, “The very first day we open our new studios, your main concern is the technicalities of where we can sleep together…”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and pushed open the doors, “You think such scandalous things about me, Enjolras,” he said in an affected, bad, old-timey accent. “I don’t know where you get these ideas…”

Enjolras squeezed his waist and leant close for a deeper kiss. “Perhaps I’m thinking the same scandalous thoughts.”

Grantaire laughed and spun out into the crisp air, tugging on Enjolras’ fingertips.

They both stared from the rooftop. The sky was a muted, eggshell grey - the apartments crookedly stretching as far as they could see, the Eiffel Tower piercing through the skyline like a ballerina reaching out gracefully. When they had first shared a night on a rooftop, the evening felt electric - lights blurring into a city full of artificial starlight and whispered midnight promises. It was the sort of night that told you to keep dancing, that told you that morning would never come, that you believed until daylight shocked you awake.

Today, the city felt muted and painted in watercolour. It was the Paris of late night sweethearts, waking blearily to stop off in pastel-coloured patisseries and boulangeries. It was the Paris of forever. It felt like a thousand lifetimes could pass, and the two of them would still have the city to look out over, their fingertips tangled together.

“It’s almost more beautiful in the day, isn’t it?” Enjolras said.

Grantaire broke apart their hands and hummed in agreement, hopping down off the ledge into the centre of the roof.

Enjolras continued to gaze across the skyscape.

Suddenly, Grantaire’s heart raced, his breath caught in his throat, and the sight of Enjolras perched on the edge of the universe blurred in his mind. Partly because he was moving as though on autopilot, and mainly because it was the perfect moment, he dropped down to the floor.

One knee digging into the cool cement, it felt like a century passed before Enjolras finally turned to look back.

A soft expression of confusion glanced over his face, before his eyes widened and he clapped a hand against his mouth.

Grantaire suddenly panicked that it was probably a terrible idea to surprise someone while they were stood on the edge of a rooftop, but to his relief Enjolras lightly stepped down to safety, looking at Grantaire as though he were the full moon on a clear night.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire managed to croak, his voice strangely reedy and thin, “Enjolras, I…”

Enjolras drifted forwards, like he was walking in a dream, he dropped to his knees in front of Grantaire, so they were eye-to-eye. In the universe of Enjolras’ irises, Grantaire could see the answer as clearly as glass. “Yes,” he whispered.

“I’ve got a whole speech,” Grantaire said, hiccupping a laugh, “It might be terrible. It might change your mind.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Enjolras said, a few stray tears flecking his cheeks, he laughed and took Grantaire’s wrists in his hands, “Go on.”

“Enjolras, I…” he shoved a hand into his pocket and fumbled, flustered. His fingers curled around a ring and he held it between them. “Enjolras… Without a doubt, you are the most magnificent, most wonderful, most kind, most passionate, most beautiful, talented person that has ever walked into my life. I think I fell a little in love with you on the stairs at the workshop, and every day since then I have loved you a little bit more, and God, now when I look at you, my heart feels overwhelmed with how lucky I am to have you by my side. Sometimes I look at you and I feel like the intensity of everything I’m feeling has been pulled straight from some Ancient classic, and we’re reliving a storyline that we have lived a thousand times before, and I just feel like this is exactly where we are meant to be. Side-by-side, hand-in-hand…” The words tumbled out of his mouth, less polished, rougher than they were when he had rehearsed to Éponine that morning. “And I always want to be here. By your side. With my hand in yours.”

Enjolras’ squeezed his hands tightly, their palms warm and grounded together.

“So… If you would permit me to stay hand-in-hand with you until we’re old and grey, and probably still rehearsing for a Les Amis old age pensioner ballet show… Will you marry me?”

Enjolras beamed, and though Paris was overcast, he was sun enough for the sky. He drew their foreheads together and held tight to Grantaire’s palms as though praying through him. “Yes,” Enjolras said, “Nothing in the world would make me happier.” They surged together, finding ecstasy in the thrill of lips upon lips. They lost themselves in the universes within, traded tears and kisses in the stardust they were made from. When Enjolras broke away he wiped his cheeks clean. “I’m going to write you the best vows ever written.”

“Better than ancient lovers?” Grantaire laughed.

“Achilles and Patroclus will pale in comparison,” Enjolras said, swiping a thumb under Grantaire’s eyes.

“Oh,” Grantaire said suddenly, “The ring!” he unhooked their fingers and pulled the band out of his palm. “I know it’s simple,” he said, “It’s not perfect, but I tried my best.”

“You made it?” Enjolras said, stretching out his left hand.

Grantaire carefully slid it over knuckles and skin, nestling it perfectly at the base of Enjolras’ ring finger. He nodded.

Enjolras held his hand out to the light, looking at the blend of oak wood and gold that adorned his flesh. “I love it,” he said, “It’s elegant. It’s _perfect_.”

“The wood is from the spiral stairs at the workshop.”

At these words, Enjolras’ head snapped up in surprise. “No!” he said, gazing upon the ring with heightened wonder. “Really?”

Grantaire grinned. “Yeah. The Old Bishop let me saw a tiny bit off from the bannister. I wanted it to be special.”

“Oh, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, a second bout of tears swimming in his eyes, “That is the sweetest, most romantic thing I have ever heard in my life…”

“And look,” Grantaire flipped Enjolras’ palm upside down. On the gold, a tiny letter was stamped into the metal. A tiny, capital ‘R’.

Enjolras let out a shaky breath, staring at the inscription.

“It’s from my shoe stamp,” Grantaire explained, to fill the silence, though he was sure that Enjolras had figured it out already, “The same stamp I used to mark your pointe shoes before I even met you…”

When Enjolras caught eyes with him again, Grantaire almost melted in the intensity of Enjolras’ gaze. He flung his arms around Grantaire’s neck and pulled them back together. “If you hadn’t just proposed, I would ask you to marry me,” Enjolras said, a laugh brushing against his lips. “I am in _awe_ of you.”

_In awe._

It was just two tiny, insignificant syllables, but somehow it captured the glowing, golden, electric intensity of the love that they shared.

Grantaire finally dropped his one knee so he was sat on both heels. “I’m in awe of you too.”

And for two souls entwined, perhaps awe is the rarest, most exhilarating feeling of all.

So they sat, huddled close, on a rooftop in the middle of Paris, watching the city roll on in the distance. Countless other lovers were tucked into their own apartments, or were strolling through the streets - some magnetised to rose sellers and the locks and keys on the romantic Pont des Arts bridge, others sharing coffee in silence, reading the same news in different papers. Across the world, other hands were held, and proposals made, and beloveds brought together in first kisses and last kisses. Awe was felt, by priests and bishops, new parents, and lonely wanderers watching the sunrise. Dancers rehearsed, shoemakers made shoes, lovers loved and dreamers dreamed. And on the top of the city, Enjolras and Grantaire sat - ready to change the world - hand-in-hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clears throat and screams into the abyss* AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!! The END!!!!!!!!
> 
> this has been S U C H a joy to write in a pretty awful year. I'm going to miss my darling shoemakers and dancers! I have loved dancing into this world SO MUCH!!
> 
> I so so so hope you like the finale of this fic! It made me E M O T I O N A L to write ! we love a happy ending here tho so I hope you do too!
> 
> for the final time I'm gonna be SAPPY about your feedback because omG I say this all the time but I realllllyy want to highlight how much of a total JOY it has been to me to hear what yall thought about this silly fluffy fic because omg you have made me feel so fuzzy and warm so thank you SO MUCH if you've ever left a comment, a kudos, or even if you've just read silently ( i see you and I lOVE yoU) For the last time in this fic let's just go FERAL in the comments over these boys BEING ENGAGEEEEDDD!!!! Please let me know all your thoughts - I CANNOT wait to hear what you think!!!!
> 
> as i have hinted a few times, I'm working on my next e/r fic so probs over the next few weeks/months I'LL BE BACK and it will be FLUFFY and SOFT and I will give you a spoiler: Enjolras in strawberry embroidered dungarees........ 
> 
> if you want to chat about this fic, les amis, or anything at all, feel free to find me on tumblr here: https://songbird-musing.tumblr.com/ I'm not super active but LET'S BE FRIENDS!!
> 
> thank you so so so so so so sos os so much for reading!!! hope you're happy, healthy and getting through this tricky time!! love, fluff and kisses!! <333


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